THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY —Pocket  Edition. 


NO.  PRICE. 

113  Mrs.  Carr’s  Companion.  By  M. 

G.  Wight  wick  10 

114  Some  of  Our  Girls.  By  Mrs. 

C.  J.  Eiloart 20 

115  Diamond  Cut  Diamond.  By  T. 

Adolphus  Trollope 10 

116  Moths.  By“Ouid'a” 20 

117  A Tale  of  the  Shore  and  Ocean. 

By  W.  H.  G.  Kingston 20 

118  Loys,  Lord  Berresford.  and  Eric 

Dering.  By  “ The  Duchess  ”.  10 

119  Monica,  and  A Rose  Distill’d. 

By  “ The  Duchess  ” 10 

120  Tom  Brown’s  School  Days  at 

Rugby.  By  Thomas  Hughes  20 

121  Maid  of  Athens.  By  Justin  Mc- 

Carthy  20 

122  lone  Stewart.  By  Mrs.  E.  Lynn 

Linton 20 

123  Sweet  is  True  Love.  By  “ The 

Duchess” 10 

124  Three  Feathers.  By  William 

Black 20 

125  The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane. 

By  William  Black 20 

126  Kilmeny.  By  William  Black. ..  20 

127  Adrian  Bright.  By  Mrs.  Caddy  20 

128  Afternoon,  and  Other  Sketches. 

By  “Ouida” 10 

129  Rossmoyne.  By  “ The  Duch- 

ess ” 10 

130  The  Last  of  the  Barons.  By 

Sir  E.  Bulwer  Lytton 40 

131  Our  Mutual  Friend.  Charles 

Dickens 40 

132  Master  Humphrey’s  Clock.  By 

Charles  Dickens 10 

133  Peter  the  Whaler.  By  W.  H.  G. 

Kingston 10 

134  The  Witching  Hour.  By  “ The 

Duchess” 10 

135  A Great  Heiress.  By  R.  E.  Fran- 

cillon 10 

136  “ That  Last  Rehearsal.”  By 

“ The  Duchess  ” 10 

137  Uncle  Jack.  By  Walter  Besant  10 

138  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly. 

By  William  Black 20 

139  The  Romantic  Adventures  of  a 

Milkmaid.  By  Thomas  Hardy  10 

140  A Glorious  Fortune.  By  Walter 

Besant 10 

141  She  Loved  Him!  By  Annie 

Thomas 10 

142  Jenifer.  By  Annie  Thomas 20 

143  One  False,  Both  Fair.  J.  B. 

Harwood 20 

144  Promises  of  Marriage.  By 

Emile  Gaboriau 10 

145  “ Storm-Beaten God  and  The 

Man.  By  Robert  Buchanan . . 20 

146  Love  Finds  the  WTay.  By  Walter 

Besant  and  James  Rice 10 

147  Rachel  Ray.  By  Anthony  Trol- 

lope  20 

148  Thorns  and  Orange-Blossoms. 

By  the  author  of  “ Dora 
Thorne” 


NO.  PRICE. 

149  The  Captain’s  Daughter.  From 

th^:Russian  of  Pushkin 10 

150  For  Himself  Alone.  By  T.  W. 

Speight 10 

151  The  Ducie  Diamonds.  By  C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152  The  Uncommercial  Traveler. 

By  Charles  Dickens 20 

153  The  Golden  Calf.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

154  Annan  Water.  By  Robert  Bu- 

chanan  20 

155  Lady  Muriel’s  Secret.  By  Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156  “ For  a Dream’s  Sake.”  By  Mrs. 

Herbert  Martin  20 

157  Milly’s  Hero.  By  F.  W.  Robin- 

son.   20 

158  The  Starling.  By  Norman  Mac- 

leod,  D.D 10 

159  A Moment  of  Madness,  and 

Other  Stories.  By  Florence 
Marryat 10 

160  Her  Gentle  Deeds.  By  Sarah 

Tytler 10 

161  The  Lady  of  Lyons.  Founded 

on  the  Play  of  that  title  by 
Lord  Lytton 10 

162  Eugene  Aram.  By  Sir  E.  Bul- 

wer Lytton 20 

163  Winifred  Power.  By  Joyce  Dar- 

rell  20 

164  Leila ; or,  The  Siege  of  Grenada. 

By  Sir  E.  Bulwer  Lytton 10 

165  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond. 

By  William  Makepeace.Thack- 
eray 20 

166  Moonshine  and  Marguerites.  By 

“The  Duchess” 10 

167  Heart  and  Science.  By  Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168  No  Thoroughfare.  By  Charles 

Dickens  and  Wilkie  Collins. . . 10 

169  The  Haunted  Man.  By  Charles 

Dickens 10 

170  A Great  Treason.  By  Mary 

Hoppus 30 

171  Fortune’s  Wheel,  and  Other 

Stories.  By  “ The  Duchess  ” 10 

172  “ Golden  Girls.”  By  Alan  Muir  20 

173  The  Foreigners.  By  Eleanor  C. 

Price 20 

174  Under  a Ban.  By  Mrs.  Lodge= . 20 

175  Love’s  Random  Shot,  and  Other 

Stories.  By  Wilkie  Collins.. . 10 

176  An  April  Day.  By  Philippa  P. 

Jephson 10 

177  Salem  Chapel.  By  Mrs.Oliphant  20 

178  More  Leaves  from  the  Journal 

of  a Life  in  the  Highlands.  By 
Queen  Victoria 10 

179  Little  Make-Believe.  By  B.  L. 

Far  jeon 10 

180  Round  the  Galley  Fire.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell 10 

181  The  New  Abelard.  By  Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182  The  Millionaire.  A Novel 20 


10 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY.— Pocket  Edition. 


NO.  PRICE. 


183  Old  Contrairy,  and  Ottajfr  Sto- 

ries. By  Florence  Maiffyat. . . 10 

184  Thirlby  Hall.  By  W.  E.  Norris.  20 
186  Difca.  By  Lady  Margaret  Ma- 

jendie 10 

186  The  Canon’s  Ward.  By  James 

Payn 20 

187  The  Midnight  Sun.  ByFredrika 

Bremer 10 

188  Idonea.  By  Anne  Beale 20 

189  Valerie’s  Fate.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 

ander  5 

190  Romance  of  a Black  Veil.  By 

the  author  of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 10 

191  Harry  Lorrequer.  By  Charles 

Lever 15 

192  At  the  World’s  Mercy.  By  F. 

Warden 10 

193  The  Rosary  Folk.  By  G.  Man- 

ville  Fenn 10 

194  “ So  Near,  and  Yet  So  Far !”  By 

Alison 10 

195  “ The  Way  of  the  World.”  By 

David  Christie  Murray 15 

196  Hidden  Perils.  By  Mary  Cecil 

Hay 10 

197  For  Her  Dear  Sake.  By  Mary 

Cecil  Hay 20 

198  A Husband’s  Story 10 

199  The  Fisher  Village.  By  Anne 

Beale 10 

200  An  Old  Man’s  Love.  By  An- 

thony Trollope 10 

201  The  Monastery.  By  Sir  Walter 

Scott 20 

202  The  Abbot.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott  20 

203  John  Bull  and  His  Island.  By 

Max  O’Rell 10 

204  Vixen.  Bj^  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon  15 

205  The  Minister’s  Wife.  By  Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206  The  Picture,  and  Jack  of  All 

Trades.  By  Charles  Reade . . 10 

207  Pretty  Miss  Neville.  By  B.  M. 

Croker 15 

208  The  Ghost  of  Charlotte  Cray, 

and  Other  Stories.  By  Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209  John  Holdsworth,  Chief  Mate. 

By  W.  Clark  Russell 10 

210  Readiana:  Comments  on  Cur- 

rent Events.  By  Chas.  Reade  10 

211  The  Octoroon.  By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 10 

212  Charles  O’Malley,  the  Irish  Dra- 

goon. By  Chas.  Lever  (Com- 
plete in  one  volume) 30 

213  A Terrible  Temptation.  Chas. 

Reade 15 

214  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.  By 

Charles  Reade 20 

215  Not  Like  Other  Girls.  By  Rosa 

Nouchette  Carey 15 

216  Foul  Play.  By  Charles  Reade.  15 

217  The  Man  She  Cared  For.  By 

F.  W.  Robinson .15 

218  Agnes  Sorel.  By  G.  P.  R.  James  15 


NO.  PRICE. 

219  Lady  Clare ; or,  The  Master  of 


the  Forges.  By  Georges  Olmet  10 

220  Which  Loved  Him  Best?  By 

the  author  of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 10 

221  Cornin’  Thro’  the  Rye.  By 

Helen  B.  Mathers 15 

222  The  Sun-Maid.  By  Miss  Grant  15 

223  A Sailor’s  Sweetheart.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell IS 

224  The  Arundel  Motto.  Mary  Cecil 

Hay 12 

225  The  Giant’s  Robe.  ByF.  Anstey  15 

226  Friendship.  By  “ Ouida  ” 20 

227  Nancy.  By  Rhoda  Broughton.  12 

228  Princess  Napraxine.  By  “Oui- 

da”  2f 

229  Maid,  Wife,  or  Widow?  By 

Mrs.  Alexander 10 

230  Dorothy  Forster.  By  Walter 

Besant 15 

231  Griffith  Gaunt.  By  Charles 

Reade 15 

232  Love  and  Money ; or,  A Perilous 

Secret.  By  Charles  Reade. . . 10 

233  “ I Say  No or,  the  Love-Letter 

Answered.  Wilkie  Collins. ...  15 

234  Barbara;  or,  Splendid  Misery. 

Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 15 

235  “It  is  Never  Too  Late  to 

Mend.”  By  Charles  Reade. ..  20 

236  Which  Shall  It  Be?  Mrs.  Alex- 

ander  20 

237  Repented  at  Leisure.  By  the 

author  of  “ Dora  Thorne  ”...  15 

238  Pascarel.  By  “ Ouida  ” 20 

239  Signa.*  By  “ Ouida  ” 20 

240  Called  Back.  By  Hugh  Conway  10 

241  The  Baby’s  Grandmother.  By 

L.  B.  Walford 10 

242  The  Two  Orphans.  ByD’Ennery  10 

243  Tom  Burke  of  “Ours.”  First 

'half.  By  Charles  Lever 20 

243  Tom  Burke  of  “ Ours.”  Second 

half.  By  Charles  Lever. 20 

244  A Great  Mistake.  By  the  author 

of  “ His  Wedded  Wife  ” 20 

245  Miss  Tommy,  and  In  a House- 

Boat.  By  Miss  Mulock 10 

246  A Fatal  Dower.  By  the  author 

of  “ His  Wedded  Wife  ” 10 

247  The  Armourer’s  Prentices.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Yonge 10 

248  The  House  on  the  Marsh.  F. 

Warden 10 

249  “ Prince  Charlie’s  Daughter.” 

By  author  of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 10 

250  Sunshine  and  Roses;  or,  Di- 

ana’s Discipline.  By  the  au- 
thor of  “ Dora  Thorne  ” 10 


251  The  Daughter  of  the  Stars,  and 

Other  Tales.  By  Hugh  Con- 
way, author  of  “Called  Back”  10 

252  A Sinless  Secret.  By  “ Rita”..  .10 

253  The  Amazon.  By  Carl  Vosmaer  10 

254  The  Wife’s  Secret,  and  Fair  but 

False.  By  the  author  of 
“ Dora  Thorne  ”. 1{ 


[continued  on  third  page  of  cover.] 

Mi- 


MISS  BRETHERTON 


By  MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD. 


NEW  YORK: 

GEORGE  MUNRO,  PUBLISHER, 

17  TO  27  YA^DS WATER  STREET. 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 

It  ought  to  be  stated  that  the  account  of  the  play  “ Elvira,”  given 
in  Chapter  VII.  of  the  present  story,  is  based  upon  an  existing  play, 
the  work  of  a little-known  writer  of  the  Romantic  time,  whose  short, 
brilliant  life  came  to  a tragical  end  in  1836.  M.  A.  W. 


p 


-?  ni^u 


' '.  Wf, I 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


CHAPTER  1. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  private  view  at  the  Royal  Academy.  The 
great  court -yard  of  Burlington  House  was  full  of  carriages,  and  a 
continuous  stream  of  guests  was  pressing  up  the  red-carpeted  stairs, 
over  which  presided  some  of  the  most  imposing  individuals  knowTn 
to  the  eyes  of  Londoners,  second  only  to  Her  Majesty’s  Beef -eaters 
in  glory  of  scarlet  apparel.  Inside,  however,  as  it  was  not  yet 
luncheon -time,  the  rooms  were  but  moderately  filled.  It  was  possi- 
ble to  see  the  pictures,  to  appreciate  the  spring  dresses,  and  to  single 
out  a friend  even  across  the  Long  Gallery.  The  usual  people  were 
there.  Academicians  of  the  old  school  and  Academicians  of  the  new; 
R.A.’s  coming  from  Kensington  and  the  “ regions  of  culture,”  and 
R.  A. ’s  coming  from  more  northerly  and  provincial  neighborhoods 
where  ait  lives  a little  desolately  and  barely,  in  want  of  the  graces 
and  adornings  with  which  “ culture  ” professes  to  provide  her. 
There  were  politicians  still  capable — as  it  was  only  the  first  week  of 
May — of  throwing  some  zest  into  their  amusements.  There  were 
art-critics  who,  accustomed  as  they  were  by  profession  to  take  their 
art  in  large  and  rapid  draughts,  had  yet  been  unable  to  content 
themselves  with  the  one  meager  day  allowed  by  the  Academy  for  the 
examination  of  some  800  works,  and  were  now  eking  out  their  notes  of 
the  day  before  by  a few  supplementary  jottings  taken  in  the  intervals 
of  conversation  with  their  lady  friends.  There  were  the  great  dealers 
betraying  in  look  and  gait  their  profound,  yet  modest,  consciousness 
that  upon  them  rested  the  foundations  of  the  artistic  order,  and  that 
it,  in  a superficial  conception  of  things,  the  star  of  an  Academician 
differs  from  that  of  the  man  who  buys  his  pictures  in  glory,  the  truly 
philosophic  mind  assesses  matters  differently.  And,  most  important 
of  all,  there  were  the  women,  old  and  young,  some  in  the  full  fresh- 
ness of  spring  cottons,  as  if  the  east  wind  outside  were  not  mocking 
the  efforts  of  the  May  sun,  and  others  still  wrapped  in  furs,  which 
showed  a juster  sense  of  the  caprices  of  the  English  climate.  Among 
them  one  might  distinguish  the  usual  shades  and  species  • the  familiar 
country  cousin,  gathering  material  for  the  overawing  of  such  of  her 
neighbors  as  were  unable  to  dip  themselves  every  year  in  the  stream 
of  London;  the  women  folk  of  the  artist  world,  presenting  greater 
varieties  of  type  than  the  women  of  any  other  class  can  boast;  and 
lastly,  a sprinkling  of  the  women  of  what  calls  itself  “ London 
Society,”  as  well  dressed,  as  well  mannered,  and  as  well  provided 
with  acquaintance  as  is  the  custom  of  their  kind. 

In  one  of  the  fuither  rooms,  more  scantily  peopled  as  yet  than  the 
rest,  a tall  thin  man  was  strolling  listlessly  from  picture  to  picture, 
making  every  now  and  then  hasty  references  to  his  catalogue,  but  in 


6 


MISS  BRETHEETOK. 


general  eying  all  lie  saw  with  the  look  of  one  in  whom  familiarity 
witii  the  sight  before  him  had  bred  weariness,  if  not  contempt.  He 
was  a handsome  man,  with  a broad  brow  and  a pleasant  gentleness 
of  expression.  The  eyes  were  fine  and  thoughtful,  and  there  was  a 
combination  of  intellectual  force  with  great  delicacy  of  line  in  the 
contour  of  the  head  and  face  which  was  particularly  attractive, 
especially  to  women  of  the  more  cultivated  and  impressionable  sort. 
His  thin  grayish  hair  was  rather  long—  not  of  that  pronounced  length 
which  inevitably  challenges  the  decision  of  the  bystander  as  to 
whether  the  wearer  be  fool  or  poet,  but  still  long  enough  to  fall  a 
little  carelessly  round  the  head  and  so  take  off  from  the  spruce  con- 
ventional effect  of  the  owner's  irreproachable  dress  and  general  Lon- 
\ don  air. 

Mr.  Eustace  Kendal — to  give  the  person  we  have  been  describing 
his  name — was  not  apparently  in  a good  temper  with  his  surroundings. 
He  was  standing  with  a dissatisfied  expression  before  a Yenetian 
scene  drawn  by  a brilliant  member  of  a group  of  English  artists  set- 
tled on  foreign  soil  and  trained  in  foreign  methods. 

“ Not  so  good  as  last  year,”  he  was  remarking  to  himself. 
“ Vulgar  drawing,  vulgar  composition,  hasty  work  everywhere.  It 
is  success  spoils  all  these  men— success  and  the  amount  of  money 
there  is  going.  The  man  who  painted  this  didn’t  get  any  pleasure 
out  of  it.  But  it’s  the  same  all  round.  It  is  money  and  luxury  and 
the  struggle  to  live  which  are  driving  us  all  on  and  killing  the 
artist’s  natural  joy  in  his  work.  And  presently,  as  that  odd  little 
Frenchman  said  to  me  last  jrear,  we  shall  have  dropped  irretriev- 
ably into  the  ‘ lowest  depth  of  mediocrity.’  ” 

“ Kendal!”  said  an  eager  voice  close  to  his  ear,  while  a hand  was 
laid  on  his  arm,  “ do  you  know  that  girl?” 

Kendal  turned  in  astonishment  and  saw  a short  oldish  man,  in 
whom  he  recognized  a famous  artist,  standing  by,  his  keen  mobile 
face  wearing  an  expression  of  strong  interest  and  inquiry. 

“ What  girl?”  he  asked,  with  a smile,  shaking  his  questioner  by 
the  hand. 

“ That  girl  in  black,  standing  by  Orchardson’s  picture.  Why, 
you  must  know  her  by  sight!  It’s  Miss  Bretherton,  the  actress.  Hid 
you  ever  see  such  beauty?  1 must  get  somebody  to  introduce  me  to 
her.  There’s  nothing  worth  looking  at  since  she  came  in.  But,  by 
ill  luck,  nobody  liereseems  to  know  her.” 

Eustace  Kendal,  to  whom  the  warm  artist  temperament  of  his 
friend  was  well  known,  turned  with  some  amusement  toward  the 
picture  named,  and  noticed  that  flutter  in  the  room  which  shows 
that  something  or  some  one  of  interest  is  present.  People  trying  to 
> look  unconcerned,  and  catalogue  in  hand,  were  edging  toward  the 
j spot  where  the  lady  in  black  stood,  glancing  alternately  at  her  and 
at  the  pictures,  in  the  manner  of  those  equally  determined  to  satisfy 
their  curiosity  and  their  sense  of  politeness.  The  lady  in  question, 
meanwhile,  conscious  that  she  was  being  looked  at,  but  not  appar- 
ently disturbed  by  it,  was  talking  to  another  lady,  the  only  person 
with  her,  a tall,  gaunt  woman,  also  dressed  in  black  and  gifted 
abundantly  with  the  forbidding  aspect  which  beauty  requires  in  its 
duenna. 

Kendal  could  see  nothing  more  at  first  than  a tall,  slender  figure, 


MISS  BRETHERTOH, 


7 

a beautiful  head,  with  a delicate  white  profile,  in  flashing  contrast 
with  its  black  surroundings,  and  with  lines  ox  golden  brown  hair. 
But  in  profile  and  figure  there  was  an  extraordinary  distinction  and 
grace  which  reconciled  him  to  his  friend’s  eagerness  and  made  him 
wish  for  the  beauty’s  next  movement.  Presently  she  turned  and 
caught  the  gaze  of  the  two  men  full  upon  her.  Her  eyes  dropped  a 
little,  but  there  was  nothing  ill-bred  or  excessive  in  her  self-con- 
sciousness. She  took  her  companion’s  arm  with  a quiet  movement, 
and  drew  her  toward  one  of  the  striking  pictures  of  the  year,  some 
little  way  off.  The  two  men  also  turned  and  walked  away. 

“ 1 never  saw  such  beauty  as  that  before,”  said  the  artist,  with 
emphasis.  “ I must  find  some  one  who  knows  her,  and  get  the 
chance  of  seeing  that  face  light  up,  else  J shall  go  home — one  may 
as  well.  These  daubs  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of  considering  now!” 
“ See  what  it  is  to  be  an  ‘ ideal  painter,’  ” said  Kendal,  laughing. 
“ At  home  one  paints  river-goddesses,  and  tree-nymphs,  and  such 
like  remote  creatures,  and  abroad  one  falls  a victim  to  the  first  well- 
dressed,  healthy-looking  girl— chaperone,  bonnet,  and  all.” 

“ Show  me  another  like  her,”  said  his  friend  warmly.  “ 1 tell 
you  they’re  not  to  be  met  with  like  that  every  day.-  Jemeconnais 
en  beaute , my  dear  fellow,  and  1 never  saw  such  perfection,  both  of 
line  and  color,  as  that.  It  is  extraordinary  , it  excites  one  as  an 
artist.  Look,  is  that  Wallace  now  going  up  to  her?” 

Kendal  turned  and  saw  a short  fair  man,  with  a dry  keen  American 
face,  walk  up  to  the  beauty  and  speak  to  her.  She  greeted  him 
cordially,  with  a beaming  smile  and  bright  emphatic  movements  of 
the  head,  and  the  three  strolled  on. 

“Yes,  that  is  Edward  Wallace — very  much  in  it,  apparently. 
That  is  the  way  Americans  have.  They  always  know  everybody  it’s 
desirable  to  know.  But  now’s  your  chance,  Forbes.  Stroll  care- 
lessly past  them,  catch  Wallace’s  eye,  and  the  thing  is  done.” 

Mr.  Forbes  had  already  dropped  Kendal’s  arm,  and  was  saunter- 
ing across  the  room  toward  the  chatting  trio.  Kendal  watched  the 
scene  from  a distance  with  some  amusement;  saw  his  friend  brush 
carelessly  past  the  American,  look  back,  smile,  stop,  and  hold  out 
his  hand;  evidently  a whisper  passed  between  them,  for  the  next 
moment  Mr.  Forbes  was  making  a low  bow  to  the  beauty,  and  im- 
mediately afterward  Kendal  saw  his  fine  gray  head  and  stooping 
shoulders  disappear  into  the  next  room,  side  by  side  with  Miss 
Bretherton’s  erect  and  graceful  figure. 

Kendal  betook  himself  once  more  to  the  pictures,  and,  presently 
finding  some  acquaintances,  made  a rapid  tour  of  the  rooms  with 
them,  parting  with  them  at  the  entrance  that  he  might  himself  go 
back  and  look  at  two  or  three  things  in  the  sculpture  room  which 
he  had  been  told  were  important  and  promising.  There  he  came 
across  the  American,  Edward  Wallace,  who  at  once  took  him  b}r  the 
arm  with  the  manner  of  an  old  friend  and  a little  burst  of  laughter. 

“ So  you  saw  the  introduction?  What  a man  is  Forbes!  He  is  as 
young  still  as  he  was  at  eighteen.  1 envy  him.  He  took  Miss 
Bretherton  right  round,  talked  to  her  of  all  his  favorite  hobbies, 
looked  at  her  in  a way  which  would  have  been  awkward  if  it  had 
been  anybody  else  but  such  a gentlemanly  maniac  as  Forbes,  and  has 
almost  made  her  promise  to  sit  to  him.  Miss  Bretherton  was  a little 


8 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


bewildered,  I think.  She  is  so  new  to  London  that  she  doesn’t  know 
who’s  who  yet  in  tliokast.  1 had  to  take  her  aside  and  explain  to 
hex  Poibes’s  humors;  then  she  fired  up— there  is  a naive  hero-worship 
about  her  just  now  that  she  is  tresh  from  a colony— and  made  herself 
as  pleasant  to  him  as  a girl  could  be.  1 prophesy  Forbes  will  think 
of  nothing  else  for  the  season.” 

“ Well,  siie’s  a brilliant  creature,”  said  Kendal.  “ Its  extraordi- 
nary how  she  shone  out  beside  the  pretty  English  girls  about  her.  It 
is  an  intoxicating  possession  for  a woman,  such  beauty  as  that;  it’s 
like  royalty;  it  places  the  individual  under  conditions  quite  unlike 
those  of  common  mortals.  1 suppose  it’s  that  rather  than  any  real 
ability  as  an  actress  that  has  made  her  a success.  1 noticed  the 
papers  said  as  much — some  more  politely  than  others.” 

“ Oh,  she’s  not  much  of  an  actress;  she  Has  no  training,  no  finesse. 
But  you’ll  see,  she’ll  be  the  great  success  of  the  season.  She  has 
wonderful  grace  on  the  stage,  and  a fine  voice  in  spite  of  tricks. 
And  then  her  Wesen  is  so  attractive;  she  is  such  a frank,  unspoiled, 
good-hearted  creature.  Her  audience  falls  in  love  with  her,  and  that 
goes  a long  way.  But  1 wish  she  had  had  a trifle  more  education 
and  something  worth  calling  a training.  Her  manager,  Robinson, 
talks  of  her  attempting  all  the  great  parts;  but  it’s  absurd.  She 
talks  very  naively  and  prettily  about 4 her  art;’  but  really  she  knows 
no,  more  about  it  than  a baby,  and  it  is  perhaps  part  of  her  charm 
that  she  is  so  unconscious  of  her  ignorance.” 

“It  is  strange  how  little  critical  English  audiences  are,”  said 
Kendal.  “ 1 believe  we  are  the  simplest  ' people  in  the  world.  All 
that  we  ask  is  that  our  feelings  should  be  touched  a little,  but 
whether  by  the  art  or  the  artist  doesn’t  matter.  She  has  not  been 
long  playing  in- London,  has  she?” 

44  Only  a few  weeks.  It’s  only  about  two  months  since  she  landed 
from  Jamaica.  She  has  a curious  history,  if  you  care  to  hear  it;  1 
don’t  think  I've  seen  you  at  all  since  1 made  friends  with  her?” 
“No,”  said  Kendal;  “I  was  beginning  to  suspect  that  something 
absorbing  had  got  hold  of  you.  I’ve  looked  for  you  two  or  three 
times  at  the  club,  and  could  not  find  you.” 

44  Oh,  it’s  not  Mis§  Bretlierton  that  has  taken  up  my  time.  She’s 
so  busy  that  nobody  can  see  much  of  her.  But  1 have  taken  her 
and  her  people  out,  two  or  three  times,  sight-seeing,  since  they  came 
— Westminster  Abbey,  the  National  Gallery,  and  so  forth.  She  is 
very  keen  about  everything,  and  the  Worralls — her  uncle  and  aunt 
— stick  to  her  pretty  closely.” 

“ Where  does  she  come  from?” 

44  Well,  her  father  was  the  Scotch  overseer  of  a sugar  plantation 
not  far  from  Kingston,  and  he  married  an  Italian,  one  of  your  fair 
Venetian  type — a strange  race-combination;  I suppose  it’s  the  secret 
of  the  brilliancy  and  o"ut-of-the-wayness  of  the  girl’s  beauty.  Her 
mother  died  when  she  was  small,  and  the  child  grew  up  alone.  Her 
father,  however,  seems  to  have  been  a good  sor«fc  of  man,  and  to  have 
looked  after  her.  Presently  she  drew  the  attention  ot  an  uncle,  a 
shopkeeper  in  Kingston,  and  a shrewd,  hard,  money-making  fellow, 
who  saw  there  was  something  to  be  made  out  of  hei.  She  had  al- 
ready shown  a turn  for  reciting,  and  had  performed  at  various  places 
in  the  schoolroom  belonging  to  the  estate,  and  so  on.  The  father 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


9 


didn’t  encourage  her  fancy  for  it.  naturally,  being  Scotch  and  Pres- 
byterian. However,  he  died  of  fever,  and  then  the  child  at  sixteen 
fell  into  her  uncle’s  charge.  He  seems  to  have  seen  at  once  exactly 
what  line  to  take.  To  put  it  cynically,  1 imagine  he  argued  some' 
thing  like  this:  “ Beauty  extraordinary — character  everything  that 

could  be  desired — talent  not  much.  So  that  the  things  to  stake  on 
are  the  beauty  and  the  character,  and  let  the  talent  take  care  of 
itself.”  Anyhow,  he  got  her  on  to  the  Kingston  theater— a poor 
little  place  enough — and  he  and  the  aunt,  that  sour-looking  creature 
you  saw  with  her,  looked  after  her  like  dragons.  Naturally,  she 
was  soon  the  talk  of  Kingston:  what  with  her  looks  and  her  grace 
and  the  difficulty  of  coming  near  her,  the  whole  European  society, 
the  garrison.  Government  House,  and  all,  were  at  her  feet.  Then  the 
uncle  played  his  cards  for  an  European  engagement.  You  remember 
that  Governor  Rutherford  they  had  a little  time  ago?  the  writer  of 
that  little  set  of  drawing-room  plays — ‘ Nineteenth  Centum  Inter- 
ludes,’ I think  he  called  them?  It  was  his  last  year,  and  he  started 
for  home  while  Isabel  Bretherton  was  acting  at  Kingston.  He  came 
home  full  of  her,  and,  knowing  all  the  theag’ical  people  here,  he 
was  able  to  place  her  at  once.  Robinson  decided  to  speculate  in 
her,  telegraphed  out  for  her,  and  here  she  is,  uncle,  aunt,  and  in- 
valid sister  into  the  bargain.” 

“ Oh,  she  has  a sister?” 

" Yes  , a little,  white,  crippled  thing,  peevish— cripples  generally 
are — but  full  of  a curious  force  of  some  hidden  kind.  Isabel  is  very 
good  to  her,  and  rather  afraid  of  her.  It  seems  to  me  that  she  is 
afraid  of  all  her  belongings.  1 believe  they  put  upon  her,  and  she 
has  as  much  capacity  as  anybody  I ever  knew  for  letting  herself  be 
trampled  upon.”  ‘ > 

“ What,  that  splendid,  vivacious  creature!”  said  Kendal  incredu-" 
lously  “ I think  I’d  back  her  for  holding  her  own.” 

” Ah,  well,  you  see,”  said  the  American,  with  the  quiet  superi- 
ority of  a three  weeks’  acquaintance,  “ 1 know  something  of  her  by 
now,  and  she’s  not  quite  wrhat  you  might  think  her  at  first  sight. 
However,  whether  she  is  afraid  of  them  or  not,  it’s  to  be  hoped  they 
will  take  care  of  her.  Naturally,  she  has  a splendid  physique,  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  London  tries  her.  The  piece  they  have  chosen 
for  her  is  a heavy  one,  and  then  of  course  society  is  down  upon  her, 
and  in  a few  weeks  she’ll  be  the  rage.” 

“ I haven’t  seen  her  at  all,”  said  Kendal,  beginning  perhaps  to  be 
a little  bored  with  the  subject  of  Miss  Bretherton,  and  turning,  eye- 
glass in  hand,  toward  the  sculpture.  “ Come  and  take  me  some 
evening.” 

” By  all  means.  But  you  must  come  and  meet  the  girl  herself  at 
my  sister’s  next  Friday.  She  will  be  there  at  afternoon  tea.  1 told 
Agnes  1 should  ask  anybody  1 liked.  1 warned  her — you  know  her 
little  weaknesses! — that  she  had  better  be  first  in  the  field ; a month, 
hence  it  will  be  impossible  to  get  hold  of  Miss  Bretherton  at  all.” 

” Then  I’ll  certainly  come,  and  do  my  worshiping  before  the 
crowd  collects,”  said  Kendal,  adding,  as  he  half-curiously  shifted 
his  eye-glass  so  as  to  take  in  Wallace’s  bronzed,  alert  countenance, 
“ How  did  you  happen  to  know  her?” 

‘‘  Rutherford  introduced  me.  He’s  an  old  friend  of  mine,” 


10 


MISS  BRETHERTOK, 


“ Well/’  said  Kendal,  moving  off,  “ Friday,  then,  1 shall  be  very 
glad  to  see  Mrs.  Stuart;  it’s  ages  since  1 saw  her  last.” 

The  American  nodded  cordially  to  him,  and  walked  away.  He 
was  one  of  those  pleasant,  ubiquitous  people  who  know  every  one 
and  find  time  for  everything— a well-known  journalist,  something 
of  an  artist,  and  still  more  of  a man  of  the  world,  who  went  through 
his  London  season  with  some  outward  grumbling,  but  with  a real 
inward  zest  such  as  few  popular  diners -out  are  blessed  with.  That 
he  should  have  attached  himself  to  the  latest  star  was  natural 
enough.  He  was  the  most  discreet  and  profitable  of  cicerones,  with 
a real  talent  for  making  himself  useful  to  nice  people.  His  friend- 
ship for  M iss  Bretlierton  gave  her  a certain  stamp  in  Kendal’s  eyes, 
for  Wallace  had  a fastidious  taste  in  personalities  and  seldom  made 
a mistake. 

Kendal  himself  walked  home,  busy  with  very  different  thoughts, 
and  was  soon  established  at  his  writing-table  in  his  high  chambers 
overlooking  an  inner  court  of  the  Temple.  It  was  a bright  after- 
noon; the  spring  sunshine  on  the  red  roofs  opposite  was  clear  and 
gay;  the  old  chimney-stacks,  towering  into  the  pale  blue  sky,  threw 
sharp  shadows  on  the  rich  red  and  orange  surface  of  the  tiles.  Be- 
low, the  court  was  halt  in  shadow,  and  utterly  quiet  and  deserted. 
To  the  left  there  was  a gleam  of  green,  atoning  for  its  spring  thin- 
ness and  scantiness  by  a vivid  energy  of  color;  while  straight  across 
the  court,  beyond  the  rich  patchwork  of  the  roofs  and  the  pictur- 
esque outlines  of  the  chimneys,  a delicate  piece  of  white  stone  work 
rose  into  air— the  spire  of  one  of  Wren’s  churches,  as  dainty,  as 
perfect,  and  as  fastidiously  balanced  as  the  hand  of  man  could 
leave  it. 

f ' Inside,  the  room  was  such  as  fitted  a studious  bachelor  of  means. 

’*The  book-cases  on  the  walls  held  old  college  classics  and  law-books 
underneath,  and  above  a miscellaneous  literary  library,  of  which  the 
main  bulk  was  French,  while  the  side- wings,  so  to  speak,  had  that 
tempting  miscellaneous  air— here  a patch  of  German,  there  an  island 
of  Italian;  on  this  side  rows  of  English  poets,  on  the  other  an 
abundance  of  novels  of  all  languages— which  delights  the  fond  heart 
of  the  book-lover.  The  pictures  were  mostly  autotypes  and  photo- 
graphs from  subjects  of  Italian  art,  except  in  one  corner,  where  a 
fine  little  collection  of  French  historical  engravings  completely 
covered  the  wall,  and  drew  a visitor’s  attention  by  the  brilliancy  of 
their  black  and  white.  On  the  writing-table  were  piles  of  paper- 
covered  French  books,  representing  for  the  most  part  the  palmy 
days  of  the  Romantics,  though  every  here  and  there  were  interven- 
ing strata  of  naturalism,  balanced  in  their  turn  by  recurrent  volumes 
of  Sainte-Beuve.  The  whole  had  a studious  air.  The  books  were 
evidently  collected  with  a purpose,  and  the  piles  of  orderly  MSS. 
lying  on  the  writing-table  seemed  to  sum  up  and  explain  their  sur- 
roundings. 

The  only  personal  ornament  of  the  room  was  a group  of  photo- 
graphs on  the  mantelpiece.  Two  were  faded  and  brown,  and  repre- 
sented Kendal’s  parents,  both  of  whom  had  been  dead  some  years. 
The  other  was  a large  cabinet  photograph  of  a woman  no  longer 
very  young — a striking-looking  woman,  with  a fine  worn  face  and  a 
general  air  of  distinction  and  character.  There  was  a strong  resem- 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


11 


blance  between  her  features  and  those  of  Eustace  Ivendal,  and  she 
was  indeed  his  elder  and  only  sister,  the  wife  of  a French  senator, 
and  her  brother’s  chief  triend  and  counselor.  Madame  de  Cliateau- 
vieux  was  a very  noticeable  person,  and  her  influence  over  Eustace 
had  been  strong  ever  since  their  childish  days.  She  was  a woman 
who  would  ha^e  justified  a repetition  in  the  present  day  of  Sis* 
mondi’s  enthusiastic  estimate  of  the  women  of  the  First  Empire. 
She  had  that  melange  du  meilleur  ton , “ with  the  purest  elegance  of 
manner,  and  a store  of  varied  information,  with  vivacity  of  impies- 
sion  and  delicacy  of  feeling,  which/'  as  he  declared  to  Madame 
d’ Albany,  “ belongs  only  to  your  sex,  and  is  found  in  its  perfection 
only  in  the  best  society  of  France.” 
in  the  days  when  she  and  Eustace  had  been  the  only  children  of 
a distinguished  and  wealthy  father,  a politician  of  some  tame,  and 
son-in-law  to  the  Tory  premier  of  his  young  days,  she  had  always 
led  and  influenced  her  brother.  He  followed  her  admiringly  through 
her  London  seasons,  watching  the  impression  she  made,  triumphing 
in  her  triumphs,  and  at  home  discussing  every  new  book  with  her 
and  sharing,  at  least  in  his  college  vacations,  the  secretary’s  work 
for  their  father,  which  she  did  excellently,  and  with  a quick,  keen, 
political  sense  which  Eustace  had  never  seen  in  any  other  woman. 
She  was  handsome  in  her  own  refined  and  delicate  way,  especially  at 
night,  when  the  sparkle  of  her  white  neck  and  arms  and  the  added 
brighluess  ot  her  dress  gave  her  the  accent  and  color  she  was  some- 
what lacking  in  at  other  times.  Naturally,  she  wTas  in  no  want  of 
suitors,  for  she  was  rich  and  her  lather  was  influential,  but  she  said 
“No”  many  times,  and  was  nearly  thirty  before  M.  de  Chateau- 
vieux,  the  first  secretary  of  the  French  Embassy,  persuaded  ber  to 
marry  him.  Since  then  she  had  filled  an  effective  place  in  Parisian 
society.  Her  husband  had  abandoned  diplomacy  for  politics,  in 
which  his  general  tendencies  were  Orleanist,  while  in  literature 
he  was  well  known  as  a constant  contributor  to  the  “ Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes.”  He  and  his  wife  maintained  an  interesting,  and  in 
its  way  influential  salon,  wThich  provided  a meeting  ground  for  the 
best  English  and  French  society,  and  showed  off  at  once  the  deli- 
cate quality  of  Madame  de  Chateauvieux's  intelligence  and  the  force 
and  kindliness  of  her  womanly  tact. 

Shortly  after  her  marriage  the  father  and  mother  died  within 
eighteen  months  of  each  other,  and  Eustace  found  his  lot  in  life 
radically  changed.  He  had  been  his  father’s  secretary  after  leav- 
ing college,  which  prevented  his  making  any  serious  efforts  to  suc- 
ceed at  the  bar,  and  in  consequence  his  interests,  both  ot  head  and 
heart,  had  been  more  concentrated  than  is  often  the  case  with  a 
young  man  wdthin  the  walls  of  his  home.  He  had  admired  his  father 
sincerely,  and  the  worth  of  his  mother’s  loquacious  and  sometimes 
meddlesome  tenderness  he  never  realized  fully  till  he  had  lost  it. 
When  he  was  finally  alone,  it  became  necessary  for  him  to  choose  a 
line  in  life.  His  sister  and  he  divided  his  father’s  money  between 
them,  and  Eustace  found  himself  with  a fortune  such  as  in  the  eyes 
of  most  ot  his  friends  constituted  a leading  of  Providence  toward 
two  things — marriage  and  a seat  in  Parliament.  However,  fortu- 
nately, his  sister,  the  only  person  to  whom  he  applied  for  advice,  was 
m no  hurry  to  press  a decision  in  either  case  upon  him.  She  saw 


12 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


that,  without  the  stimulus  of  the  father’s  presence,  Eustace’s  interest 
in  politics  was  less  real  than  his  interest  in  letters,  nor  did  the  times 
seem  to  her  propitious  to  that  philosophic  conservatism  which  might 
be  said  to  represent  the  family  type  of  mind.  So  she  stirred  him  up 
to  return  to  some  of  the  projects  of  his  Cambridge  days  when  he 
and  she  were  first  bitten  with  a passion  for  that  great,  that  fascinat- 
ing French  literature  which  absorbs,  generation  after  generation, 
the  interests  of  two  thirds  of  those  who  are  sensitive  to  the  things 
of  letters.  She  suggested  a book  to  him  which  took  his  fancy,  and 
in  planning  it  something  of  the  old  zest  of  life  returned  to  him. 
Moreover,  it  was  a book  which  required  him  to  spend  a part  of  every 
year  in  Paris,  and  the  neighborhood  of  his  sister  was  now  more  de- 
light! ul  to  him  than  ever. 

So,  after  a time,  he  settled  down  contentedly  in  his  London  cham- 
bers with  his  books  about  him,  and  presently  found  that  glow  of 
labor  stealing  over  him  which  is  at  once  the  stimulus  and  the  reward 
of  every  true  son  of  knowledge.  His  book  reconciled  him  to  life 
again,  and  soon  be  was  as  often  seen  in  the  common  haunts  of  Lon- 
don society  as  before.  He  dined  out,  he  went  to  the  theater,  he  fre- 
quented his  club  like  other  men,  and  every  year  he  spent  three  of  the 
winter  months  in  Paris,  living  in  the  best  French  world,  talking  as 
he  never  talked  in  London,  and  cultivating,  whether  in  the  theater 
or  in  the  salons  of  his  sister’s  friends  or  in  the  studios  of  some  of  the 
more  eminent  of  French  artists,  a fastidious  critical  temper,  which 
was  rapidly  becoming  more  and  more  exacting,  more  and  more 
master  of  the  man. 

Now,  on  this  May  afternoon,  as  he  settled  himself  down  to  his 
work,  it  would  have  given  any  of  those  who  liked  Eustace  Kendal 
— and  they  were  many — pleasure  to  see  how  the  look  ot  fatigue  with 
which  he  had  returned  from  his  round  of  the  Academy  faded  away, 
how  he  shook  back  the  tumbling  gray  locks  from  his  eyes  with  the 
zest  and  eagerness  of  one  setting  forth  to  battle,  and  how  as  time 
passed  on  and  the  shadows  deepened  on  the  white  spire  opposite,  the 
contentment  of  successful  labor  showed  itself  in  the  slow  uncon- 
scious caress  which  fell  upon  the  back  of  the  sleeping  cat  curled  up 
in  the  chair  beside  him,  or  in  the  absent  but  still  kindly  smile  with 
which  he  greeted  the  punctual  entrance  of  the  servant,  who  at  five 
o’clock  came  to  put  tea  and  the  evening  paper  beside  him  and  to 
make  up  the  fire,  which  crackled  on  with  cheery  companionable 
sounds  through  the  lamplit  evening  and  far  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Two  or  three  days  afterward,  Kendal,  in  looking  over  his  engage- 
ment-book, in  which  the  entries  were  methodically  kept,  noticed 
“ Afternoon  tea,  Mis.  Stuart’s,  Friday,”  and  at  once  sent  oil  a note 
to  Edward  Wallace,  suggesting  that  they  should  go  to  the  theater 
together  on  Thursday  evening  to  see  Miss  Bretheiton,  ” for,  as  you 
will  see,”  he  wrote,  “ it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  meet  her  with 
a good  conscience  unless  1 have  done  my  duty  beforehand  by  going 
to  see  her  perform.”  To  this  the  American  replied  by  a counter 
proposal.  “ Miss  Bretherton,”  he  wrote,  ” offers  my  sister  and  my- 


MISS  BHETHEMOH.  13 

self  a box  for  Friday  night;  it  will  hold  four  or  five;  you  must  cer- 
tainly be  of  the  party,  and  I shall  ask  Forbes/* 

Kendal  felt  himself  a little  entrapped,  and  would  have  preferred 
to  see  the  actress  under  conditions  more  favorable  to  an  independ- 
ent judgment,  but  he  was  conscious  that  a refusal  would  be  un- 
gracious, so  he  accepted,  and  prepared  himself  to  meet  the  beauty  m 
as  sympathetic  a frame  of  mind  as  possible. 

On  Friday  afternoon,  after  a long  and  fruitful  day’s  work,  he 
fouud  himself  driving  westward  toward  the  old-fashioned  Kensing- 
ton house  of  which  Mrs.  Stuart,  with  her  bright,  bird-like,  Ameri- 
can ways,  had  succeeded  in  making  a considerable  social  center. 
His  mind  was  still  full  of  his  work,  phrases  of  Joubert  or  of  Sten- 
dhal seemed  to  be  still  floating  about  him,  and  certain  subtleties  of 
artistic  and  critical  speculation  were  still  vaguely  arguing  themselves 
out  within  him  as  he  sped  westward,  drawing  in  the  pleasant  influ- 
ences of  the  spring  sunshine,  and  delighting  his  eyes  in  the  May 
green  which  was  triumphing  more  and  more  every  day  over  the  gray- 
ness of  London,  and  would  s»on  have  reached  that  lovely  short-lived 
pause  of  victory  which  is  all  that  summer  can  hope  to  win  amid  the 
dust  and  crowd  of  a great  city. 

Kendal  wras  in  that  condition  which  is  proper  to  men  possessed  of 
the  true  literary  temperament,  when  the  first  fervor  of  youth  for 
mere  living  is  gone,  when  the  first  crude  difficulties  of  accumulation 
are  over,  and  when  the  mind,  admitted  to  regions  of  an  ampler  ether 
and  diviner  air  than  any  she  has  inhabited  before,  feels  the  full 
charm  and  spell  of  man’s  vast  birthright  of  knowledge,  and  is  seized 
with  subtler  curiosities  and  further-reaching  desires  than  anything 
she  has  yet  been  conscious  of.  The  world  of  fact  and  of  idea  is 
open,  and  the  explorer’s  instruments  are  as  perfect  as  they  can  be 
made.  The  intoxication  of  entrance  is  full  upon  him,  and  the  lassi- 
tude which  is  the  inevitable  Nemesis  of  an  unending  task,  and  the 
chill  which  sooner  or  later  descends  upon  every  human  hope,  are  as 
yet  mere  names  and  shadows,  counting  for  nothing  in  the  tranquil 
vista  of  his  life,  which  seems  to  lie  spread  out  before  him.  It  is  a 
rare  state,  for  not  many  men  are  capable  of  the  apprenticeship  which 
leads  to  it,  and  a breath  of  hostile  circumstance  may  put  an  end  to 
it;  but  in  its  own  manner  and  degree,  and  while  it  lasts,  it  is  one  of 
the  golden  states  of  consciousness,  and  a man  enjoying  it  feels  this 
mysterious  gift  of  existence  to  have  been  a kindly  boon  from  some 
beneficent  power. 

Arrived  at  Mrs.  Stuart’s,  Kendal  found  a large  gathering  already 
filling  the  pleasant  low  rooms  looking  out  upon  trees  at  either  end, 
upon  which  Mrs.  Stuart  had  impressed  throughout  the  stamp  of  her 
own  keen  little  personality.  She  was  competent  in  all  things — com- 
petent in  her  criticism  of  a book,  and  more  than  competent  in  all 
that  pertained  to  the  niceties  of  house  management.  Her  dinner- 
parties, of  which  each  was  built  up  from  foundation  to  climax  with 
the  most  delicate  skill  and  unity  of  plan;  her  pretty  dresses,  in  which 
she  trailed  about  her  soft-colored  rooms;  her  energy,  her  kindliness, 
and  even  the  evident  but  quite  innocent  pursuit  of  social  perfection 
in  which  she  delighted —all  made  her  popular;  and  it  was  not  difficult 
for  her  to  gather  together  whom  she  would  when  she  wished  to 
launch  a social  novelty.  On  the  present  occasion  she  was  very  much 


14 


MISS  BRETHERTOM. 


in  her  element.  All  around  her  were  people  more  or  less  distin- 
guished in  the  London  world;  here  was  an  editor,  there  an  artist;  a 
junior  member  of  the  Government  chatted  over  his  tea  with  a foreign 
Minister,  and  a flow  of  the  usual  London  chatter  of  a superior  hind 
was  rippling  through  the  room  when  Kendal  entered. 

Mrs.  Stuart  put  him  in  the  way  of  a chair  and  of  abundant  chances 
of  conversation,  and  then  left  him  with  a shrug  of  her  shoulders  and 
a whisper.  “ The  beauty  is  shockingly  late!  Tell  me  what  I shall 
do  if  all  these  people  are  disappointed.”  In  reality  Mrs.  Stuart  was 
beginning  to  be  restless.  Kendal  had  himself  arrived  very  late,  and, 
as  the  talk  flowed  faster,  and  the  room  filled  fuller  of  guests  eager 
for  the  new  sensation  which  had  been  promised  them,  the  spirits  of 
the  little  hostess  began  to  sink.  The  Minister  had  surreptitiously 
looked  at  his  watch,  and  a tiresome  lady  friend  had  said  good-by 
in  a voice  which  might  have  been  lower,  and  with  a lament  which 
might  have  been  spared.  Mrs.  Stuart  set  great  store  upon  the  suc- 
cess of  her  social  undertakings,  and  to  gather  a crowd  of  people  to 
meet  the  rising  star  of  the  season,  and  then  to  have  to  send  them 
home  with  only  tea  and  talk  to  remember,  was  one  of  those  failures 
which  no  one  with  any  self-respect  should  allow  themselves  to  risk. 

However,  fortune  was  once  more  kind  to  one  of  her  chief  favor- 
ites. Mrs  Stuart  was  just  listening  with  a tired  face  to  the  well- 
meant,  but  depressing  condolences  of  the  barrister  standing  by  her, 
who  was  describing  to  her  the  “ absurd  failure  ” of  a party  to  meet 
the  leading  actress  of  the  Gomedie  Frangaise,  to  which  he  had  been 
invited  in  the  previous  season,  -when  the  sound  of  wheels  was  heard 
outside.  Mrs.  Stuart  made  a quick  step  forward,  leaving  her  Job's 
comforter  planted  in  the  middle  of  his  storv,  the  hum  of  talk  drop- 
ped in  an  inslant  and  the  crowd  about  the  door  fell  hastily  back  as 
it  was  thrown  open  and  Miss  Bretherton  entered. 

What  a glow  and  radiance  of  beauty  entered  the  room  with  her! 
She  came  in  rapidly,  her  graceful  head  thrown  eagerly  back,  her 
face  kindling  and  her  hands  outstretched  as  she  caught  sight  ot  Mrs. 
Stuart.  There  was  a vigor  and  splendor  of  life  about  her  that  made 
all  her  movements  large  and  emphatic,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
nothing  could  exceed  the  delicate  finish  of  the  physical  structure 
itself.  What  was  indeed  characteristic  in  her  was  this  combination 
of  extraordinary  perfectness  of  detail,  with  a flash,  a warmth,  a 
force  of  impression,  such  as  often  raises  the  lower  kinds  of  beauty 
into  excellence  and  picturesqueness,  but  is  seldom  found  in  connec- 
tion wilh  those  types  where  the  beauty  is,  as  it  were,  sufficient  in  and 
by  itself,  and  does  not  need  anything  but  its  own  inherent  harmonies 
of  line  and  hue  to  impress  itself  on  the  beholders. 

There  were  some,  indeed,  who  maintained  that  the  smallness  and 
delicacy  of  her  features  was  out  of  keeping  with  her  stature  and  her 
ample  gliding  motions.  But  here,  again,  the  impression  of  delicacy 
was  transformed  half  way  into  one  ot  brilliancy  by  the  large  hazel 
eyes  and  the  vivid  whiteness  of  the  skin.  Kendal  watched  her  from 
his  corner,  where  his  conversation  with  two  musical  young  ladies 
had  been  suddenly  suspended  by  the  arrival  ot  the  actress,  and 
thought  that  his  impression  of  the  week  before  had  been,  if  any- 
thing, below  the  truth. 

“ She  comes  into  the  room  well,  too,”  he  said  to  himself  critic- 


MISS  BRETHERTOM. 


15 


ally;  “ she  is  not  a mere  milkmaid;  she  has  some  manner,  some  in- 
dividuality. Ah,  now  Fernandez  ’’—naming  the  Minister — “ has 
got  hold  ot  her.  Then,  1 suppose,  Rushbrook  ” (the  member  ot  tne 
Government)  “will  come  next,  and  we  commoner  mortals  in  our 
turn.  What  absurdities  these  things  are!’’ 

His  reflections,  however,  were  stopped  by  the  exclamations  of  the 
girls  beside  him,  who  were  already  warm  admirers  of  Miss  Brether- 
ton,  and  wild  with  enthusiasm  at  finding  themselves  in  the  same 
room  with  her.  They  discovered  that  he  was  going  to  .see  her  in  the 
evening;  they  envied  him,  they  described  the  play  to  him,  they 
dwelt  in  superlatives  on  the  crowded  state  of  the  theater  and  on  the 
plaudits  which  greeted  Miss  Bretlierton’s  first  appearance  in  the 
ball-room  scene  in  the  first  act,  and  they  allowed  themselves— being 
aesthetic  damsels  robed  in  sober  greenish-grays— a gentle  lament 
over  the  somewhat  violent  coloring  of  one  of  the  actress’s  costumes, 
while  all  the  time  keeping  their  eyes  furtively  fixed  on  the  gleaming 
animated  profile  and  graceful  shoulders,  over  which,  in  the  entrance 
of  the  second  drawing-room,  the  Minister’s  gray  head  was  bending. 

Mrs.  Stuart  did  her  duty  bravely.  Miss  Bretherton  had  announced 
to  her,  with  a thousand  regrets,  that  she  had  only  half  an  hour  to 
give.  “ We  poor  professionals,  you  know,  must  dine  at  four.  That 
made  me  late,  and  now  1 find  I am  such  a long  way  from  home  that 
six  is  the  latest  moment  1 can  stay.”  So  that  Mrs.  Stuart  was  put 
to  it  to  get  through  all  the  introductions  sue  had  promised.  But  she 
performed  her  task  without  flinching,  killing  remorselessly  each 
nascent  conversation  in  the  bud,  giving  artist,  author,  or  member  ot 
Parliament  his  proper  little  sentence  of  introduction,  and  at  last 
beckoning  to  Eustace  E endal,  who  left  his  corner  feeling  society  to 
be  a foolish  business,  and  wishing  the  ordeal  were  over. 

Miss  Bretherton  smiled  at  him  as  she  had  smiled  at  all  the  others, 
and  he  sat  down  for  his  three  minutes  on  the  chair  beside  her. 

“ 1 hear  you  are  satisfied  with  your  English  audiences,  Miss 
Bretherton,”  he  began  at  once,  having  prepared  himself  so  far. 
“ To-night  I am  to  have  the  pleasure  for  the  first  time  of  making 
one  of  your  admirers.” 

“ 1 hope  it  will  please  you,”  she  said,  with  a shyness  that  was 
still  bright  and  friendly.  “ You  will  be  sure  to  come  and  see  me 
afterward?  I have  been  arranging  it  with  Mrs.  Stuart.  1 am  never 
fit  to  talk  to  afterward,  1 get  so  tired.  But  it  does  one  good  to  see 
one’s  friends;  it  makes  one  forget  the  theater  a little  before  going 
home.” 

“ Do  you  find  Loudon  very  exciting?” 

“ Yes,  very.  People  have  been  so  extraordinarily  kind  to  me, 
and  it  is  all  such  a new  experience  after  that  little  place  Kingston. 
1 should  have  my  head  turned,  1 think,”  she  added,  with  a happy 
little  laugh,  “ but  that  when  one  cares  about  one’s  art  one  is  not 
likely  to  think  too  much  of  one’s  self.  I am  always  despairing  over 
what  there  is  still  to  do,  and  what  one  may  have  done  seems  to 
make  no  matter.  ’ ’ 

She  spoke  with  a pretty  humility,  evidently  meaning  what  she 
said,  and  yet  there  was  such  a delightful  young  triumph  in  her  man- 
ner, such  an  invulnerable  consciousness  of  artistic  success,  that 
Kendal  felt  a secret  stir  of  amusement  as  he  recalled  the  criticisms 


16 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


which  among  his  own  set  he  had  most  commonly  heard  applied  to 
her. 

“ Yes,  indeed,'’  he  answered  pleasantly.  “ I suppose  every  artist 
teels  the  same.  We  all  doit  we  are  good  r|or  anything— we  who 
scribble  as  well  as  you  who  act.”  > 

“ Oh  yes,”  she  said,  with  kindly,  questioning  eyes,  “ you  write  a 
great  deal?  I know;  Mr.  Wallace  told  me.  He  says  you  are  so 
learned,  and  that  your  book  will  be  splendid.  It  must  be  grand  to 
write  books.  I should  like  it,  1 think,  better  than  acting.  You 
need  only  depend  on  yourself  ; but  in  acting  you’re  always  depend- 
ing on  some  one  else,  and  you  get  in  such  a rage  when  all  your  own 
grand  ideas  are  spoiled  because  the  leading  gentleman  won’t  do  any- 
thing different  from  what  he  has  been  used  to,  or  the  next  lady 
wants  to  show  oft,  or  the  stage  manager  has  a grudge  against  you! 
Something  always  happens.  ’ ’ 

“ Apparently  the  only  thing  that  always  happens  to  you  is  suc- 
cess,” said  Kendal,  rather  hating  himself  for  the  cheapness  of  the 
compliment.  “ 1 bear  wonderful  reports  of  the  difficulty  of  getting 
a seat  at  the  Calliope ; and  his  friends  tell  me  that  Mr.  Kobinson 
looks  ten  years  younger.  Poor  man!  it  is  time  that  fortune  smiled 
on  him.” 

“ Yes,  indeed;  he  had  a bad  time  last  year.  That  Miss  Harwood, 
the  American  actress,  that  they  thought  would  be  such  a success, 
didn’t  come  off  at  all.  She  didn’t  hit  the  public.  It  doesn’t  seem 
to  me  that  the  English  public  is  hard  to  please.  At  that  wretched 
little  theater  in  Kingston  1 wasn’t  nearly  so  much  at  my  ease  as  I 
am  here.  Here  one" can  always  do  one’s  best  and  be  sure  that  the 
audience  will  appreciate  it.  I have  all  sorts  of  projects  in  my  head. 
Next  year  I shall  have  a theater  of  my  own,  1 think,  and  then — ” 

“ And  then  we  shall  see  you  in  all  the  great  parts?” 

The  beauty  had  just  begun  her  answer  when  Kendal  became  con- 
scious of  Mrs.  Stuart  standing  beside  him,  with  another  aspirant  at 
her  elbow,  and  nothing  remained  for  him  but  to  retire  with  a hasty 
smile- and  handshake,  Miss  Bretherton  brightty  reminding  him  that 
they  should  meet  again. 

A few  minutes  afterwards  there  was  once  more  a general  flutter 
in  the  room.  Miss  Bretherton  was  going.  She  came  forward  in 
her  long  flowing  black  garments,  holding  Mrs.  Stuart  by  the  hand, 
the  crowd  dividing  as  she  passed.  On  her  way  to  the  door  stood  a 
child,  Mrs.  Stuart’s  youngest,  looking  at  her  with  large  wondering 
brown  eyes,  and  finger  on  lip.  The  actress  suddenly  stooped  to  her, 
lifted  her  up  with  the  ease  of  physical  strength  into  the  midst  of  her 
soft  furs  and  velvets,  and  kissed  her  with  a gracious  queenliness. 
The  child  threw  its  little  white  arms  around  her,  smiled  upon  her, 
and  smoothed  her  hair,  as  though  to  assure  itself  that  the  fairy  prin- 
cess was  real.  Then  it  struggled  down,  and  in  another  minute  the 
bright  vision  was  gone,  and  the  crowded  room  seemed  to  have  grown 
suddenly  dull  and  empty. 

“ That  was  prettily  done,”  said  Edward  Wallace  to  Kendal  as 
they  stood  together  looking  on.  ‘‘In  another  woman  those  things 
would  be  done  for  effect,  but  I don’t  think  she  does  them  for  effect. 
It  is  as  though  she  felt  herself  in  such  a warm  and  congenial  atmos- 
phere, she  is  so  sure  of  herself  and  her  surroundings,  that  she  is  able 


MISS  BRETHERTOM. 


17 


to  give  herself  full  play,  to  follow  every  impulse  as  it  rises.  There 
is  a wonderful  absence  of  mauvaise  honte  about  her,  and  yet  1 believe 
that,  little  as  she  knows  of  her  own  deficiencies,  she  is  really  mod- 
est— ” 

“ Very  possibly,”  said  Kendal;  ‘ 4 it  is  a curious  study,  a character 
taken  so"  much  au  naturel , and  suddenly  transported  into  the  midst 
of  such  a London  triumph  as  this.  1 have  certainly  been  very  much 
attracted,  and  feel  inclined  to  quarrel  with  you  for  having  run  her 
down.  1 believe  I shall  admire  her  more  than  you  do  to-night.” 

“1  only  hope  you  may,”  said  the  American  cordially;  “1  am 
afraid,  however,  that  from  any  standard  that  is  worth  using  there  is 
not  much  to  be  said  for  her  as  an  actress.  But  as  a human  being 
she  is  very  nearly  perfection.” 

The  afternoon  guests  departed,  and  just  as  the  last  had  gone,  Mr. 
Forbes  was  announced.  He  came  in  in  a bad  temper,  having  been 
delayed  by  business,  and  presently  sat  down  to  dinner  with  Mrs. 
Stuart  and  Wallace  and  Kendal  in  a very  grumbling  frame  of  mind. 
Mr.  Stuart,  a young  and  able  lawyer,  in  the  first  agonies  of  real  suc- 
cess at  the  bar,  had  sent  word  that  he  could  not  reach  home  till  late. 

I don’t  know,  I’m  sure,  wThal’s  the  good  of  going  to  see  that  girl 
with  you  two  carping  fellowrs,”  he  began,  combatively,  over  his 
soup.  ” She  won’t  suit  you,  and  you’ll  only  spoil  Mrs.  Stuart’s 
pleasure  and  mine.” 

“ My  dear  Forbes,”  said  Wallace  in  his  placid  undisturbed  way, 
“ you  will  see  1 shall  behave  like  an  angel.  1 shall  allow  myself  no 
unpleasant  remarks,  and  1 shall  make  as  much  noise  as  anybody  in 
the  theater.” 

“ That’s  all  very  well;  but  if  you  don’t  say  it,  Kendal  will  look 
it;  and  I don’t  know  which  is  the  most  damping.” 

“ Mrs.  Stuart,  you  shall  be  the  judge  of  our  behavior,”  said  Ken- 
dal, smiling— he  and  Forbes  were  excellent  friends.  “ Forbes  is  not 
in  a judicial  frame  of  mind,  but  we  will  trust  you  to  be  fair.  I sup- 
pose,, Forbes,  we  may  be  allowed  a grumble  or  two  at  Hawes  if  you 
shut  our  mouths  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Bretlierton.” 

‘‘  Hawes  does  his  best,”  said  Forbes,  with  a touch  of  obstinacy. 
” He  looks  well,  lie  strides  well,  he  is  a fine  figure  of  a man  with  a 
big  bullying  voice;  1 don’t  know  what  more  you  want  in  a German 
prince.  It  is  this  everlasting  hypercriticism  which  spoils  all  one’s 
pleasure  and  frightens  all  the  character  out  of  the  artists!” 

At  which  Mis.  Stuart  laughed,  and,  woman  like,  observed  that  she 
supposed  it  rvas  only  people  wdio,  like  Forbes,  had  succeeded  in  dis 
arming  the  critics,  who  could  afford  to  scoff  at  them, — a remark 
which  drew  a tunny  little  bow,  half -petulant,  half-pleased,  out  of 
the  artist,  in  whom  one  of  the  strongest  notes  of  character  was  his 
susceptibility  to  the  attentions  of  women. 

“You’ve  seen  her  already,  I believe,”  said  Wallace  to  Forbes. 
“ I think  Miss  Bretkerton  told  me  you  were  at  the  Calliope  on  Mon- 
day.” 

“ Yes,  I was.  Weil,  as  I tell  you,  I don’t  care  to  be  critical.  1 
don't  want  to  whittle  away  the  few  pleasures  that  this  dull  life  can 
provide  me  witn  by  this  perpetual  discontent  with  what’s  set  before 
one.  Why  can’t  you  eat  and  be  thankful?  To  look  at  that  girl  is  a 
liberal  education;  she  has  a fine  voice  too,  and  her  beauty,  her  fresh- 


18 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


ness,  the  energy  ot  life  in  her,  give  me  every  sort  of  artistic  pleasure. 
What  a curmudgeon  1 should  be— what  a grudging,  ungrateful  fel- 
low, if,  after  all  she  has  done  to  delight  me,  1 should  abuse  her  be- 
cause she  can't  speak  out  her  tiresome  speeches — which  are  of  no 
account,  and  don't  matter,  to  my  impression  at  all — as  well  as  one 
of  your  thin,  French,  snake-like  creatures  who  have  nothing  but 
their  art,  as  you  call  it;  nothing  but  what  they  have  been  carefully 
taught,  nothing  but  what  they  have  laboriously  learned  with  time 
and  trouble,  to  depend  upon!” 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  tirade,  the  artist  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair,  tossed  back  his  gray  hair  from  his  glowing  black 
eyes,  and  looked  defiance  at  Kendal,  who  was  sitting  opposite. 

“ But,  after  all,”  said  Kendal,  roused,  “ these  tiresome  speeches 
are  her  metier ; it’s  her  business  to  speak  them,  and  to  speak  them 
well.  You  are  praising  her  for  qualities  which  are  not  properly 
dramatic  at  all.  In  your  studio  they  would  be  the  only  thing  that  a 
man  need  consider:  on  the  stage  they  natuialiy  come  second.” 

” Ah,  well,”  said  Forbes,  failing  to  upon  his  dinner  again  at  a 
gentle  signal  from  Mrs.  Stuart  that  the  carriage  would  soon  be  round, 
“ 1 knew  very  well  how  you  and  Wallace  would  take  her.  You  and  I 
will  have  to"  defend  each  other,  Mrs.  Stuart,  against  those  two 
shower-baths,  and  when  we  go  to  see  her  afterward  1 shall  be  in- 
valuable, for  1 shall  be  able  to  save  Kendal  and  Wallace  the  hum- 
bug of  compliments.” 

Whereupon  the  others  protested  that  they  would  on  no  account  be 
deprived  of  their  share  of  the  compliments,  and  Wallace  especially 
laid  it  down  that  a man  would  be  a poor  creature  who  could  not 
find  smooth  things  to  say  upon  any  conceivable  occasion  to  Isabel 
Bretherton.  Besides,  he  saw  her  every  day,  and  was  in  excellent 
practice.  Forbes  looked  a little  scornful,  but  at  this  point  Mrs. 
Stuart  succeeded  in  diverting  his  attention  to  his  latest  picture,  and 
the  dinner  flowed  on  pleasantly  till  the  coflee  was  handed  and  the 
carriage  announced. 


CHAPTER  111. 

On  their  arrival  at  the  theater,  armed  with  Miss  Bretherton's 
order,  Mrs.  Stuart's  party  found  themselves  shown  into  a large 
roomy  box  close  to  the  stage — too  close,  indeed,  for  purposes  of  see- 
ing well.  The  house  was  already  crowded,  and  Kendal  noticed,  as 
he  scanned  the  stalls  and  boxes  through  his  opera-glass,  that  it  con- 
tained a considerable  sprinkling  of  notabilities  of  various  kinds.  It 
was  a large  new  theater,  winch  hitherto  had  enjoyed  but  a very 
moderate  share  of  popular  favor,  so  that  the  brilliant  and  eager 
crowd  with  which  it  was  now  filled  was  in  itself  a sufficient  testimony 
to  the  success  of  the  actress  who  had  wrought  so  great  a transforma- 
tion. 

“ What  an  experience  is  this  for  a girl  of  twenty-one,”  whispered 
Kendal  to  Mrs.  Stuart,  who  was  comfortably  settled  in  the  further 
corner  of  the  box,  her  small  dainty  figure  set  off  by  the  crimson 
curtains  behind  it.  “ One  would  think  that  an  actor’s  life  must  stir 


MISS  BRETIIERTOM.  19 

the  very  depths  of  a man  or  woman’s  individuality,  that  it  must 
call  every  power  into  action,  and  strike  sparks  out  of  the  dullest.” 

“ Yes;  but  how  seldom  it  is  so!” 

“ Well,  in  England,  at  any  rate,  the  fact  is,  their  training  is  so 
imperfect  they  daren’t  let  themselves  go.  It’s  only  when  a man 
possesses  the  lower  secrets  of  his  art  perfectly  that  he  can  aim  at  the 
higher.  But  the  band  is  nearly  through  the  overture.  Just  tell  me 
before  the  curtain  goes  up  something  about  the  play.  1 have  only 
very  vague  ideas  about  it.  The  scene  is  laid  at  Berlin.” 

“ Yes:  in  the  Altes  Schloss  at  Berlin.  The  story  is  based  upon  the 
legend  of  the  White  Lady.” 

“ What?  tlie  warning  phantom  of  the  Hohenzollerns?” 

Mrs.  Stuart  nodded.  “ A Crown-Prince  of  Prussia  is  in  love  with 
the  beautiful  Countess  Hilda  von  Weissenstein.  Reasons  of  State, 
however,  oblige  him  to  throw  her  over  and  to  take  steps  toward  mar- 
riage with  a Princess  of  Wurtemberg.  They  have  just  been  be- 
trothed when  the  Countess,  mad  with  jealousy,  plays  the  part  of  the 
White  Lady  and  appears  to  the  Princess,  to  try  and  terrify  her  out 
of  the  proposed  marriage.” 

“ And  the  Countess  is  Miss  Brelherton?” 

“Yes.  Of  course  the  malicious  people  say  that  her  get-up  as  the 
White  Lady  is  really  the  raison  d'etre  of  the  piece.  But,  hush!  there 
is  the  signal.  Make  up  your  mind  to  be  bored  by  the  Princess;  she 
is  one  of  the  worst  sticks  1 ever  saw !” 

The  first  scene  represented  the  ball-ioom  at  the  Schloss,  or  rather 
the  royal  anteroom,  beyond  which  the  vista  of  the  ball-room  opened. 
The  Prussian  and  Wurtemherg  royalties  had  not  yet  arrived,  with 
the  exception  of  the  Prince  Wilhelm,  on  whose  matrimonial  pros- 
pects the  play  was  to  turn.  He  was  engaged  in  explaining  the  situa- 
tion to  his  friend,  Waldemar  von  Rothenfels,  the  difficulties  in  which 
he  was  placed,  his  passion  for  the  Countess  Hilda,  the  political 
necessities  which  forced  him  to  marry  a daughter  of  the  House  of 
Wurtemberg,  the  pressure  brought  to  bear  upon  him  by  his  parents, 
and  his  own  despair  at  having  to  break  the  news  to  the  Countess. 

The  story  is  broken  off  by  the  arrival  of  the  royalties,  including 
the  pink-and-white  maiden  who  is  to  be  Prince  Wilhelm’s  fate,  and 
the  royal  quadrille  begins.  The  Prince  leads  his  Princess  to  her 
place,  when  it  is  discovered  that  another  lady  is  required  to  com- 
plete the  figure,  and  an  aide-de-camp  is  dispatched  into  the  ball-room 
to  fetch  one.  He  returns,  ushering  in  the  beautiful  Hilda  von  Weis- 
senstein. 

For  this  moment  the  audience  had  been  impatiently  waiting,  and 
when  the  dazzling  figure  in  its  trailing,  pearl  embroidered  robes  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway  of  the  ball-room,  a storm  of  applause  broke 
forth  again  and  again,  and  for  some  minutes  delayed  the  progress 
of  the  scene. 

Nothing,  indeed,  could  have  been  better  calculated  than  this  open- 
ing to  display  the  peculiar  gifts  of  the  actress.  The  quadrille  was  a 
stately  spectacular  display,  in  which  splendid  dress  and  stirring 
music  and  the  effects  of  rhythmic  motion  had  been  brought  freely 
into  play  tor  the  delight  of  the  beholders.  Between  the  figures 
there  was  a little  skillfully-managed  action,  mostly  in  dumb  show. 
The  movements  of  the  jealous  "beauty  and  of  her  faithless  lover 


MISS  ISTfETHKIiTOM. 


20 

were  invested  throughout  with  sufficient  dramatic  meaning  to  keep 
up  the  thread  of  the  play.  But  it  was  not  the  dramatic  aspect  of 
the  scene  for  which  the  audience  cared,  it  was  simply  for  the  display 
which  it  made  possible  of  Isabel  Bretherton’s  youth  and  grace  "and 
loveliness.  They  hung  upon  her  every  movement,  and  Kendal 
found  himself  following  her  with  the  same  eagerness  of  eye  as  those 
about  him,  lest  any  phase  of  that  embodied  poetry  should  escape 
him. 

In  this  introductory  scene,  the  elements  which  went  to  make  up 
the  spell  she  exercised  over  her  audience  were  perfectly  distinguish- 
able. Kendal’s  explanation  of  it  to  himself  was  that  it  was  based 
upon  an  exceptional  natural  endowment  of  physical  perfection,  in- 
formed and  spiritualized  by  certain  moral  qualities,  by  simplicit}^ 
frankness,  truth  of  nature.  There  was  a kind  of  effluence  of  youth, 
of  purity,  of  strength,  about  her  which  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel, 
and  which  evidently  roused  the  enthusiastic  sympathy  of  the  great 
majority  of  those  who  saw  her. 

Forbes  was  sitting  jin  the  front  of  the  box  with  Mrs.  Stuart,  his 
shaggy  gray  head  and  keen  lined  face  att  racting  considerable  atten- 
tion in  their  neighborhood.  He  was  in  his  most  expansive  mood; 
the  combativeness  of  an  hour  before  had  disappeared,  and  the  ardent 
susceptible  temperament  of  the  man  was  absorbed  in  admiration,  in 
the  mere  sensuous  artist’s  delight  in  a stirring  and  beautif  ul  series  of 
impressions.  When  the  white  dress  disappeared  through  the  door- 
way of  the  ball-room,  he  followed  it  with  a sigh  of  regret,  and  dur- 
ing the  scene  which  followed  between  the  Prince  and  his  intended 
bride,  he  hardly  looked  at  the  stage.  The  Princess,  indeed,  was  all 
that  Mrs.  Stuart  had  pronounced  her  to  be;  she  was  stiffer  and 
clumsier  than  even  her  Teutonic  role  could  justify,  and  she  marched 
laboriously  through  her  very  proper  and  virtuous  speeches,  evidently 
driven  on*  by  an  uneasy  consciousness  that  the  audience  was  only 
eager  to  come  to  the  end  of  them  and  of  her. 

Id  the  little  pause  which  followed  the  disappearance  of  the  newlv- 
betrothed  pair  into  the  distant  ball-room,  Mrs.  Stuart  leaned  back- 
ward over  her  chair  and  said  to  Kendal: 

“Now  then,  Mi.  Kendal,  prepare  your  criticisms!  In  the  scene 
which  is  just  coming  Miss  Bretherton  has  a good  deal  more  to  do 
than  to  look  pretty!” 

“ Oh,  but  you  forget  our  compact!”  said  Kendal.  “ Remember 
you  are  to  be  the  judge  of  our  behavior  at  the  end.  It  is  not  the 
part  of  a judge  to  tempt  those  on  whom  he  is  to  deliver  judgment  to 
crime.” 

“Don’t  put  too  much  violence  on  yourself!”  said  Mrs.  Stuart, 
laughing.  “You  and  Edward  can  have  the  back  of  the  box  to  talk 
what  heresy  you  like  in,  so  long  as  you  let  Mr.  Forbes  perform  his 
devotions  undisturbed.” 

At  this  Forbes  half  turned  round,  and  shook  his  great  mane,  under 
what  gleamed  a countenance  of  comedy  menace,  at  the  two  men 
behind  him.  But  in  another  instant  the  tones  of  Isabel  Bretherton’s 
voice  riveted  his  attention,  and  the  eyes  of  all  those  in  the  box  were 
once  more  turned  toward  the  stage. 

The  scene  which  followed  was  one  of  the  most  meritorious  pas- 
sages in  the  rather  heavy  German  play  from  which  the  “ White 


MISS  BRlMEMOff. 


21 

Lady  ' had  been  adapted.  It  was  intended  to  show  the  romantic  and 
passionate  character  ot  the  Countess,  and  to  suggest  that  vein  of 
extravagance  and  daring  in  her  which  was  the  explanation  of  the 
subsequent  acts.  In  the  original  the  dialogue  had  a certain  German 
lorcc  and  intensit}',  which  lost  nothing  of  its  occasional  heaviness  in 
the  mouth  ot  Hawes,  the  large- boned  swaggering  personage  wTho 
played  the  Prince.  An  actress  with  sufficient  force  of  feeling,  and 
an  artistic  sense  subtle  enough  to  suggest  to  her  the  necessary  modu- 
lations, could  have  made  a great  mark  in  it.  But  the  first  words, 
almost,  revealed  Isabel  Bietherton’s  limitations,  and  before  two  min- 
utes were  over  Kendal  was  conscious  of  a complete  collapse  of  that 
sympathetic  relation  between  him  and  the  actress  which  the  fiist 
scene  had  produced.  In  another  sentence  or  two  the  spell  had  been 
irrevocably  broken,  and  he  seemed  to  himself  to  have  passed  from  a 
state  of  sensitiveness  to  all  that  was  exquisite  and  rare  in  her  to  a 
state  of  mere  irritable  consciousness  of  her  defects.  It  wTas  evident 
to  him  that  in  a scene  of  great  capabilities  she  never  once  rose  be- 
yond the  tricks  of  an  elementary  elocution,  that  her  violence  had  a 
touch  of  commonness  in  it  which  was  almost  vulgarity,  and  that 
even  her  attitudes  had  lost  half  their  charm.  For,  in  the  effort — the 
conscious  and  labored  effort  of  acting — her  movements,  which  had 
exercised  such  an  enchantment  over  him  in  the  first  scene,  had  be- 
come mere  strides  and  rushes,  never  indeed  without  grace,  but  often 
without  dignity,  and  at  all  times  lacking  in  that  consistency,  that 
unity  of  .plan  which  is  the  soul  of  art. 

The  sense  of  chill  and  disillusion  was  extremely  disagreeable  to 
him,  and,  by  the  time  the  scene  was  half-way  through,  he  had  al- 
most ceased  to  watch  her.  Edward  Wallace,  who  had  seen  her 
some  two  or  three  times  in  the  paTt,  was  perfectly  conscious  of  the 
change,  and  had  been  looking  out  for  it. 

“ blot  much  to  be  said  for  her,  1 am  afraid,  when  she  comes  to 
business,”  he  said  to  Kendal  in  a whisper,  as  the  two  leaned  against 
the  door  ot  the  box.  “ Where  did  she  get  those  tiresome  tricks  she 
has,  that  see-saw  intonation  she  puts  on  when  she  wants  to  be 
pathetic,  and  that  absurd  restlessness  which  spoils  everything?  It’s 
a terrible  pity.  Sometimes  I think  1 catch  a gleam  of  some  original 
power  at  the  bottom,  but  there  is  such  a lack  of  intelligence— in  the 
artist  sense.  It  is  a striking  instance  of  how  much  and  how  little 
can  be  done  without  education.” 

“ It  is  curiously' bad,  certainly,”  said  Kendal,  while  the  actiess’s 
denunciations  ot  her  lover  were  still  ringing  through  the  theater. 
“ But  look  at  the  house!  What  folly  it  is  ever  to  expect  a great 
dramatic  art  in  England.  We  have  no  sense  for  the  rudiments  ot 
the  thing.  The  French  would  no  more  tolerate  such  acting  as  this 
because  of  the  beauty  of  the  actress  than  they  would  judge  a picture 
b}^  its  frame.  However,  if  men  like  Forbes  leave  their  judgment 
behind  them,  it’s  no  wonder  if  commoner  mortals  follow  suit.” 

“There!”  said  Wallace,  with  a sigh  ot  relief  as  the  curtain  fell 
on  the  first  act,  “ that’s  done  with.  There  are  two  or  three  things 
in  the  second  act  that  are  beautiful.  In  her  first  appearance  as  the 
White  Lady  she  is  as  wonderful  as  ever,  but  the  third  act  is  a 
nuisance—” 

“No  whispeiing  there,”  said  Forbes,  looking  round  upon  them. 


22 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


“ Oh,  1 know  what  you’re  after,  Edward,  perfectly.  1 hear  it  all 
with  one  ear.” 

“ That,”  said  Wallace,  movingup  to  him,  “ is  physically  impossi- 
ble. Don’t  be  so  pugnacious.  We  leave  you  the  front  of  the  box, 
and  when  we  appear  in  your  territory  our  mouths  are  closed.  But 
in  our  own  domain  we  claim  the  rights  of  free  men.” 

‘‘Poor  girl!”  said  Forbes,  with  a sigh.  “How  she  manages  to 
tame  London  as  she  does  is  a marvel  to  me!  It  she  were  a shade 
less  perfect  and  wonderful  than  she  is,  she  would  have  been  torn  to 
pieces  by  you  critics  long  ago.  You  have  done  your  best  as  it  is, 
only  the  public  won’t  listen  to  you.  Oh,  don't  suppose  1 don’t  see 
all  that  you  see.  The  critical  poison’s  in  my  veins  just  as  it  is  in 
yours,  but  1 hold  it  in  check— it  sha’n’t  master  me.  I will  have  my 
pleasure  in  spite  of  it,  and  when  I come  across  anything  in  life  that 
makes  me  feel,  1 will  protect  my  feeling  from  it  with  all  my  might.” 

“We  are  dumb,”  said  Kendal,  with  a smile;  “ otherwise  1 would 
pedantically  ask  you  to  consider  what  are  the  feelings  to  which  the 
dramatic  art  properly  and  legitimately  appeals.” 

“Oh,  hang  your  dramatic  art,”  said  Forbes,  firing  up;  “can’t 
you  take  things  simply  and  straightforwardly.  She  is  there— she  is 
doing  her  best  for  you— there  isn’t  a movement  or  a look  which  isn’t 
as  glorious  as  that  of  a Diana  come  to  earth,  and  you  won’t  let  it 
charm  you  and  conquer  you,  because  she  isn’t  into  the  bargain  as 
confoundedly  clever  as  you  are  yourselves!  Well,  it's  your  loss,  not 
hers.” 

“ My  dear  Mr.  Forbes,”  said  Mrs.  Stuart,  with  her  little  judicial 
peace-making  air,  “ we  shall  all  go  away  contented.  You  will  have 
had  your  sensation,  they  will  have  had  their  sense  of  superiority, 
and,  as  for  me,  I shall  get  the  best  of  it  all  round.  For,  while  you 
are  here,  I see  Miss  Breilierton  with  your  eyes,  and  yet,  as  Edward 
will  get  hold  of  me  on  the  way  home,  1 shan’t  go  to  bed  without 
having  experienced  all  the  joys  of  criticism!  Oh!  but  now  hush, 
and  listen  to  this  music.  It  is  one  of  the  best  things  in  the  evening, 
and  we  shall  have  the  White  Lady  directly.” 

As  she  spoke,  the  orchestra,  which  was  a good  one,  and  perhaps 
the  most  satisfactory  feature  in  the  performance,  broke  into  some 
weird  Mendelssohnian  music,  and  when  the  note  of  plaintiveness 
and  mystery  had  been  well  established,  the  curtain  rose  upon  the 
great  armory  of  the  castle,  a dim  indistinguishable  light  shining 
upon  its  fretted  roof  and  masses  of  faintly-gleaming  steel.  The 
scene  which  followed,  in  which  the  Countess  Hilda,  disguised  as  the 
traditional  phantom  of  the  Hohenzollerns,  whose  appearance  bodes 
misfortune  and  death  to  those  who  behold  it,  throws  herself  across 
the  path  of  her  rival  in  the  hope  of  driving  her  and  those  interested 
in  her  by  sheer  force  of  terror  from  the  castle  and  from  Berlin,  had 
been  poetically  conceived,  and  it  furnished  Miss  Bretherton  with  an 
admirable  opportunity.  As  the  White  Lady,  gliding  between  rows 
of  armed  and  spectral  figures  on  either  hand,  and  startling  the  Prin- 
cess and  her  companion  by  her  sudden  apparition  in  a gleam  of 
moonlight  across  the  floor,  she  was  once  more  the  representative  of: 
all  that  is  most  poetical  and  romantic  in  physical  beauty.  Nay, 
more  than  this;  as  she  flung  her  white  arms  above  her  head,  or 
pointed  to  the  shrinking  and  fainting  figure  of  her  rival  while  she 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


23 


uttered  her  wailing  traditional  prophecy  of  woe,  her  whole  person- 
ality seemed  to  be  invested  with  a dramatic  force  of  which  there  had 
been  no  trace  in  the  long  and  violent  scene  with  the  Prince.  It  was 
as  though  she  was  in  some  sort  capable  of  expressing  herself  in  ac- 
tion and  movement,  while  in  all  the  arts  of  speech  she  was  a mere 
crude  novice.  At  any  rate,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  in  this  one 
scene  she  realized  the  utmost  limits  of  the  author’s  ideal,  and  when 
she  faded  into  the  darkness  beyond  the  moonlight  in  which  she  had 
first  appeared,  the  house,  which  had  been  breathlessly  silent  during 
tiie  progress  of  the  apparition,  burst  into  a roar  of  applause,  in 
which  Wallace  and  Kendal  heartily  joined. 

“Exquisite!”  said  Kendal  in  Sirs.  Stuart’s  ear,  as  he  stood  be- 
hind her  chair.  “She  was  romance  itself!  Her  acting  should  al- 
ways be  a kind  of  glorified  and  poetical  pantomime;  she  would  be 
inimitable  so.” 

Mrs.  Stuart  looked  up  and  smiled  agreement.  “ Ye s,  that  scene 
lives  with  one.  If  everything  else  in  the  play  is  poor,  she  is  worth 
seeing  for  that  alone.  'Remember  it  /” 

The  little  warning  was  in  season,  for  the  poor  White  Lady  had 
but  too  many  after  opportunities  of  blurring  the  impression  slie  had 
made.  In  the  great  situation  at  the  end  of  the  second  act,  in  which 
the  Countess  has  to  give,  in  the  presence  of  the  Court,  a summary 
of  the  supposed  story  of  the  White  Lady,  her  passion  at  once  of  love 
and  hatred  charges  it  with  a force  and  meaning,  which,  for  the  first 
time,  rouses  the  suspicions  of  the  Prince  as  to  the  reality  of  the  sup- 
posed apparition.  In  the  two  or  three  fine  and  dramatic  speeches 
which  the  situation  involved,  the  actress  showed  the  same  absence 
of  knowledge  and  resources  as  before,  the  same  powerlessness  to  cre- 
ate a personality,  the  same  lack  of  all  those  quicker  and  more  deli- 
cate of  perceptions  which  we  include  under  the  general  term  “re- 
finement,” and  which,  in  the  practice  of  any  art,  are  the  outcome  of 
long  and  complex  processes  of  education.  There,  indeed,  was  the 
bald,  plain  fact — the  whole  explanation  of  her  failure  as  an  artist 
lay  in  her  lack  both  of  the  lower  and  of  the  higher  kinds  of  educa- 
tion. It  was  evident  that  her  technical  training  had  been  of  the 
roughest.  In  all  technical  respects,  indeed,  her  acting  had  a self- 
taught,  provincial  air,  which  showed  you  that  she  had  natural 
cleverness,  but  that  her  models  had  been  of  the  poorest  type. 
And  in  all  other  respects — when  it  came  to  interpretation  or 
creation — she  was  spoiled  by  her  entire  want  of  that  inheritance 
from  the  past  which  is  the  foundation  of  all  good  work  in  the 
present.  For  an  actress  must  have  one  of  the  two  kinds  of 
knowledge:  she  must  have  cither  the  knowledge  which  comes 
from  a fine  training — in  itself  the  outcome  of  a long  tradition — or 
she  must  have  the  knowledge  which  comes  from  mere  living,  from 
the  accumulations  of  personal  thought  and  experience.  Miss 
Bretherton  had  neither.  She  had  extraordinary  beauty  and  charm, 
and  certainly,  as  Kendal  admitted,  some  original  quickness.  He 
was  not  inclined  to  go  so  far  as  to  call  it  “ power.”  But  this  quick- 
ness, which  would  have  been  promising  m a debutante  less  iichly  en- 
dowed oq  the  physical  side,  seemed  to  him  to  have  no  future  in  her. 
“ It  will  be  checked,”  he  said  to  himself,  “ by  her  beauty  and  all 
that  flows  from  it.  She  must  come  to  depend  more  and  more  on 


24 


MISS  BliETHERTOH, 


Ihe  phj^sical  charm,  and  on  that  only.  The  whole  pressure  of  her 
success  is  and  will  be  that  way.” 

Miss  Bretherton’s  inadequacy,  indeed,  became  more  and  more 
visible  as  the  play  was  gradually  and  finely  worked  up  to  its -climax 
in  the  last  act.  In  the  final  scene  of  all,  the  Prince,  who,  by  a series 
of  accidents  has  discovered  the  Countess  Hilda’s  plans,  lies  in  wait 
for  her  in  the  armory,  where  he'has  reason  to  know  she  means  to  try 
the  effect  of  a third  and  last  apparition  upon  the  Princess.  She  ap- 
pears; he  suddenly  confronts  her;  and,  dragging  her  forward,  un- 
veils before  himself  and  the  Princess  the  death-like  features  of  his 
old  love.  Recovering  from  the  shock  of  detection,  the  Countess 
pours  out  upon  them  both  a fury  of  jealous  passion,  sinking  by  de- 
grees into  a pathetic,  trance-like  invocation  of  the  past,  under  the 
spell  of  which  the  Prince’s  anger  melts  awa}^  and  the  little  Prin- 
cess’s terror  and  excitement  change  into  eager  pity.  Then,  when  she 
sees  him  almost  reconquered,  and  her  rival  weeping  beside  her,  she 
takes  the  poison  vial  from  her  breast,  drink's  it,  and  dies  in  the 
arms  of  the  man  for  whose  sake  she  has  sacrified  beauty,  character, 
and  life  itself. 

A great  actress  could  hardly  have  wished  for  a better  opportunity. 
The  scene  was  so  obviously  beyond  Miss  Bretherton’s  resources  that 
even  the  enthusiastic  house,  Kendal  fancied,  cooled  down  during 
the  progress  of  it.  There  were  signs  of  restlessness,  there  was  even 
a little  talking  in  some  of  the  back  rows,  and  at  no  time  during  the 
scene  was  there  any  of  that  breathless  absorption  in  what  was  pass- 
ing on  the  stage  which  the  dramatic  material  itself  amply  deserved. 

“ 1 don’t  think  this  will  last  very  long,”  said  Kendal  in  Wallace’s 
ear.  ‘‘There  is  something  tragic  in  a popularity  like  this;  it  rests 
on  something  unsound,  and  one  feels  that  disaster  is  not  far  off. 
The  whole  thing  impresses  me  most  painfully.  She  has  some  capac- 
ity, of  course;  if  only  the  conditions  had  been  different — it  she  had 
been  born  within  a hundred  miles  of  the  Paris  Conservatoire,  if  her 
youth  had  been  passed  in  a society  of  more  intellectual  weight — but, 
as  it  is,  this  very  applause  is  ominous,  for  the  beauty  must  go  sooner 
or  later,  and  there  is  nothing  else.” 

“ You  remember  Pesforets  in  this  same  theater  last  year  in  4 Ad- 
rienne Lecouvreur said  Wallace.  “What  a gulf  between  the 
right  thing  and  the  wrong!  But  come,  we  must  do  our  duty;”  and 
he  drew  Kendal  forward  toward  the  front  of  the  box,  and  they  saw 
the  whole  house  on  its  feet,  clapping  and  shouting,  and  the  curtain 
just  being  drawn  back  to  let  the  White  Lady  and  the  Prince  appear 
before  it.  She  was  very  pale,  but  the  storm  of  applause  which  greeted 
her  seemed  to  revive  her,  and  she  swept  her  smiling  glance  round 
the  theater,  until  at  last  it  rested  with  a special  gleam  of  recognition 
on  the  party  in  the  box,  especially  on  Forbes,  who  was  outdoing 
himself  in  enthusiasm.  She  was  called  iorward  again  and  again, 
until  at  last  the  house  was  content,  and  the  general  exit  began. 

The  instant  after  her  white  dress  had  disappeared  from  the  stage, 
a little  page  boy  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  box  with  a message  that 
“Miss  Bretherton  begs  that  Mrs.  Stuart  and  her  friends  will  come 
and  see  her.”  Out  they  all  trooped,  along  a narrow  passage,  and  up 
a short,  staircase,  until  a rough  temporary  door  was  thrown  open, 
and.  they  found  themselves  in  the  wings,  the  great  stage,  on  which 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


25 


the  scenery  was  being  hastily  shitted,  lying  to  their  right.  The 
lights  were  being  put  out;  only  a few  gas-jets  were  left  burning 
round  a pillar,  beside  which  stood  Isabel  Bietlierton,  her  long  phan- 
tom dress  lying  in  white  folds  about  her,  her  uncle  and  aunt  and 
her  manager  standing  near.  Every  detail  of  the  picture— the  spot 
of  brilliant  light  bounded  on  all  sides  by  dim,  far-reaching  vistas  of 
shadow,  the  figures  hurrying  across  the  back  of  the  stage,  the  mov- 
ing ghost-like  workmen  all  around,  and  in  the  midst  that  white- 
hooded,  languid  figure— revived  in  Kendal’s  memory  whenever  in 
after  days  his  thoughts  went  wandering  back  to  the  first  moment  of 
real  contact  between  his  own  personality  and  that  of  Isabel  Brether- 
ton. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A few  days  after  the  performance  of  the  “ White  Lady,”  Ken- 
dal, in  the  course  of  his  weekly  letter  to  his  sister,  sent  her  a fairly- 
detailed  account  of  the  evening,  including  the  interview  with  her 
after  the  play,  which  had  left  two  or  thiee  very  marked  impressions 
upon  him.  “ 1 wish,”  he  wrote,  “ 1 could  only  convey  to  you  a 
sense  of  her  personal  charm  such  as  might  balance  the  impression 
of  her  artistic  defects,  which  I suppose  this  account  of  mine  can  not 
but  leave  on  you.  When  I came  away  that  night  after  our  conversa- 
tion with  her  1 had  entirely  forgotten  her  failure  as  an  actress,  and 
it  is  only  later,  since  1 have  thought  over  the  evening  m detail,  that 
'l  have  returned  to  my  first  standpoint  of  wonder  at  the  easy  tolera- 
tion of  the  English  public.  When  you  are  actually  wdtli  her,  talking 
to  her,  looking  at  her,  Forbes’s _ attitude  is  the  only  possible  and 
reasonable  one.  What  does  art,  or  cultivation,  or  training  matter! 
I found  myself  saying,  as  1 walked  home,  in  echo  of  him — so  long 
as  Nature  will  only  condescend  once  in  a hundred  years  to  produce 
for  us  a creature  so  perfect,  so  finely  fashioned  to  all  beautiful  uses! 
Let  other  people  go  through  the  toil  to  acquire;  their  aim  is  truth; 
but  here  is  beauty  in  its  quintessence,  and  what  is  beauty  but  three 
parts  of  truth?  Beauty  is  harmony  with  the  universal  order,  a reve- 
lation of  laws  and  perfections  of  which,  in  our  common  groping 
through  a dull  world,  we  find  in  general  nothing  to  remind  us. 
And,  if  so,  what  tolly  to  ask  of  a human  creature  that  it  should  be 
more  than  beautiful!"  It  is  a messenger  from  the  gods,  and  we  treat 
it  as  it  it  were  any  common  traveler  along  the  highway  of  life,  and 
; cross  examine  it  for  its  credentials  instead  of  raising  our  altar  and 
) sacrificing  to  it  with  grateful  hearts! 

i “ That  was  my  latest  impression  of  Friday  night.  But,  naturally, 

{ by  Saturday  morning  I had  returned  to  the  rational  point  of  view. 

; The  mind’s  morning  climate  is  removed  by  many  degrees  from  that 
of  the  evening;  and  the  critical  revolt  which  the  whole  spectacle  of 
the  ‘ White  Lady  ’ had  originally  roused  in  me  revived  in  all  its 
force.  1 began,  indeed,  to  feel  as  if  I and  humanity,  With  its  long 
laborious  tradition,  were  on  one  side,  holding  our  own  against  a 
young  and  arrogant  aggressor — namely,  beauty,  in  the  person  of 
Miss  Bretherton!  How  many  men  and  women,  1 thought,  have 
labored  and  struggled  and  died  in  the  effort  to  reach  a higher  and 
higher  perfection  in  one  single  art,  and  are  they  to  be  outdone, 


26 


MISS  BRETHERTOtf. 


eclipsed  in  a moment,  by  something  which  is  a mere  freak  of 
nature;  something  which  like  the  lilies  of  the  field,  has  neither 
toiled  nor  spun,  and  yet  claims  the  special  inheritance  and 
reward  of  those  who  have!  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  my 
feeling  in  her  presence  of  the  night  before,  as  it  the  sudden  over- 
throw of  the  critical  resistance  in  me  had  been  a kind  of  treachery  to 
the  human  cause.  Beauty  has  power  enough,  1 found  myself  reflect- 
ing with  some  fierceness — let  us  withhold  from  her  a sway  and  a 
prerogative  which  are  not  rightfully  hers;  let  us  defend  against  her 
that  store  of  human  sympathy  which  is  the  proper  reward,  not  of 
her  facile  and  heaven-born  perfections,  but  of  labor  and  intelligence, 
of  all  that  is  complex  and  tenacious  in  the  workings  of  the  human 
spirit. 

“ And  then,  as  my  mood  cooled  still  further,  1 began  to  recall 
many  an  evening  at  the  FraiiQais  with  you,  and  one  part  after 
another,  one  actor  after  another,  recurred  to  me,  till,  as  I realized 
afresh  what  dramatic  intelligence  and  dramatic  training  really  are,  I 
fell  into  an  angry  contempt  for  our  lavish  English  enthusiasms. 
Poor  girl!  it  is  not  her  fault  if  she  believes  herself  to  be  a great 
actress.  Brought  up  under  misleading  conditions,  and  without  any 
but  the  most  elementary  education,  how  is  she  to  know  what  the  real 
thing  means?  She  finds  herself  the  rage  within  a few  weeks  of 
her  appearance  in  the  greatest  city  of  the  world.  Naturally,  she 
pays  no  heed  to  her  critics — why  would  she? 

" And  she  is  indeed  a most  perplexing  mixture.  Do  what  1 will 
I cannot  harmonize  all  my  different  impressions  of  her.  Let  me  be- 
gin again.  Why  is  it  that  her  acting  is  so  poor?  1 never  saw  a 
more  dramatic  personality ! Everything  that  she  says  or  does  is  said  or 
done  with  a wrath,  a force,  a vivacity  that  makes  her  smallest  gesture 
and  her  lightest  lone  impress  themselves  upon  you.  1 felt  this  very 
strongly  two  or  three  times  after  the  play  on  Friday  night.  In  her 
talk  with  Forbes,  for  instance,  whom  she  has  altogether  in  her  toils, 
and  whom  she  plays  with  as  though  he  were  the  gray- headed  Mer- 
lin and  she  an  innocent  Yivien,  weaving  harmless  spells  about  him. 
And  then,  from  this  mocking  war  of  wrords  and  Iooks,  this  gay 
camaraderie,  in  which  there  was  not  a scrap  of  coquetry  or  self- 
consciousness,  she  would  pass  into  a sudden  outburst  of  anger  as  to 
the  impertinence  of  English  rich  people,  the  impertinence  of  rich 
millionaires  who  have  tried  once  or  twice  to  ‘ order  ’ her  for  their 
evening  parties  as  they  would  order  their  ices;  or  the  imperti- 
nence of  the  young  ‘ swell  about  town  ’ who  thinks-  she  has 
nothing  to  do  behind  the  scenes  but  receive  his  visits  and  provide 
him  with  entertainment.  And,  as  the  quick  impetuous  words 
came  rushing  out,  you  felt  that  here  for  once  was  a woman 
speaking  her  real  mind  to  you,  and  that  with  a flashing  eye  and 
curving  lip,  an  inborn  grace  and  energy  which  made  every  word 
memorable.  If  she  would  but  look  like  that  or  speak  like  that  on 
the  stage!  But  there,  of  course,  is  the  rub.  The  whole  difficulty 
of  art  consists  in  losing  your  own  personality,  so  to  speak,  and  find- 
ing it  again  transformed,  and  it  is  a difficulty  which  Miss  Bretherton 
has  never  even  understood. 

“ After  this  impression  of  spontaneity  and  natural  force,  I think 
what  struck  me  most  was  the  physical  effect  London  has  already  ex- 


MISS  BRETHERTOIL 


27 


ercised  upon  her  in  six  weeks.  Slie  looks  superbly  sound  and 
healthy;  she  is  tall  and  fully  developed,  and  her  color,  for  all  its 
delicacy,  is  pure  and  glowing.  But,  after  all,  she  was  born  in  a 
languid,  tropical  climate,  and  it  is  the  nervous  strain,  the  rush,  the 
incessant  occupation  of  London  which  seem  to  be  telling  upon  her. 
She  gave  me  two  or  three  times  a painful  impression  of  fatigue  on 
Friday —fatigue  and  something  like  depression.  After  twenty  min- 
utes’ talk  she  threw  herself  back  against  the  iron  pillar  behind  her, 
her  White  Lady’s  hood  framing  a face  so  pale  and  drooping  tnat  we 
all  got  up  to  go,  feeling  that  it  was  cruelty  to  keep  her  up  a minute 
longer.  Mrs.  Stuart  asked  her  about  her  Sundays,  and  whether  she 
ever  got  out  of  town.  ‘ Oh,’  she  said,  with  a sigh  and  a look  at 
her  uncle,  who  was  standing  near,  ‘ 1 think  Sunday  is  the  hardest 
day  of  all.  It  is  our  “ at  home  ” day,  and  such  crowds  come — just 
to  look  at  me,  I suppose,  for  I cannot  talk  to  a quarter  of  them.’ 
Whereupon  Mr.  Worrall  said  in  his  bland  commercial  way  that 
society  had  its  burdens  as  well  as  its  pleasures,  and  that  his  dear 
niece  could  hardly  escape  her  social  duties  after  the  flatteiing  man- 
ner in  which  London  had  welcomed  her.  Miss  Bretherton  an- 
swered, with  a sort  of  languid  rebellion,  that  her  social  duties  would 
soon  be  the  death  of  her.  But  evidently  she  is  very  docile  at  home, 
and  they  do  what  they  like  with  her.  it  seems  to  me  that  the  uncle 
and  aunt  are  a good  deal  shrewder  than  the  London  public;  it  is 
borne  in  upon  me  by  various  indications  that  they  know  exactly 
what  their  niece’s  popularity  depends  on,  and  that  it  very  possibly 
may  not  be  a long-lived  one.  Accordingly,  they  have  determined 
on  two  things:  first,  that  she  shall  make  as  much  money  for  the 
family  as  can  by  any  means  be  made;  and,  secondly,  that  she  shall 
find  her  way  into  London  society,  and  secure,  if  possible,  a great 
•parti  before  the  enthusiasm  for  her  has  had  time  to  chill.  One  hears 
various  stories  of  the  uncle,  all  in  this  sense;  I cannot  say  how  true 
they  are. 

“However,  the  upshot  of  the  supper-party  was  that  next  day 
Wallace,  Forbes  and  1 met  at  Mrs.  Stuart’s  house,  and  formed  a 
Sunday  League  for  the  protection  of  Miss  Bretherton  from  her 
family;  in  other  words,  we  mean  to  secure  that  she  has  occasional 
rest  and  country  air  on  Sunday — her  only  free  day.  Mrs.  Stuart  has 
already  wrung  out  of  Mrs.  Worrall,  by  a little  judicious  scaring, 
permission  to  carry  her  off  for  two  Sundays— one  this  month  and 
one  next — and  Miss  Bretheiton’s  romantic  side,  which  is  curiously 
strong  in  her,  has  been  touched  by  the  suggestion  that  the  second 
Sunday  should  be  spent  at  Oxford. 

“ Probably  lor  the  first  Sunday— a week  hence— we  shall  go  to 
Surrey.  You  remember  Hugh  Farnham’s  property  near  Leith  Hill? 

1 know  all  the  farms  about  there  from  old  shooting  days,  and  there 
is  one  on  the  edge  of  some  great  commons  which  would  be  perfec- 
tion on  a May  Sunday.  I will  write  you  a full  account  oi  our  daj". 
The  only  rule  laid  down  by  the  League  is  that  things  are  to  be  so 
managed  that  Miss  Bretherton  is  to  have  no  possible  excuse  for 
fatigue  so  long  as  she  is  in  the  hands  of  the  society. 

“ My  book  goes  on  fairly  well.  1 have  been  making  a long  study 
of  De  Musset,  with  the  result  that  the  poems  seem  to  me  far  finer 
than  I had  remembered,  and  the  ‘ Confessions  d’  un  Enfant  du 


28 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


Si&cle  1 a miserable  performance.  How  was  it  it  impress  3d  me  so 
much  when  I read  it  first?  His  poems  have  reminded  me  of  you  at 
every  step.  Do  you  remember  how  you  used  to  read  them  aloud  to 
our  mother  and  me  after  dinner,  while  the  father  had  his  sleep  be- 
fore going  down  to  the  House?’ ’ 

Ten  days  later  Kendal  spent  a long  Monday  evening  in  writing 
the  following  letter  to  his  sister:— 

44  Our  yesterday’s 'expedition  was,  1 think,  a great  success.  Mrs. 
Stuart  was  happy,  because  she  had  for  once  induced  Stuart  to  put 
away  his  papers  and  allow  himself  a holiday;  it  was  Miss  JBretlier- 
ton’s  first  sight  of  the  genuine  English  country,  and  she  was  like  a 
child  among  the  gorse  and  the  hawthorns,  while  Wallace  and  I 
amused  our  manly  selves  extremely  well  in  befriending  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  British  Isles,  in  drawing  her  out  and  watch- 
ing her  strong  naive  impressions  of  things.  Stuart,  1 think,  was  not 
quite  happy.  It  is  hardly  to  be  expected  of  a lawyer  in  the  crisis  of 
his  fortunes  that  he  should  enjoy  ten  hours’  divorce  frojn  his 
briefs;  but  he  did  his  best  to  reach  the  common  level,  and  his  wife, 
who  is  devoted  to  him,  and  might  as  well  not  be  married  at  all, 
from  the  point  of  view  of  marital  companionship,  evidently  thought 
him  perfection.  The  day  more  than  confirmed  my  liking  for  Mrs. 
Stuart;  there  are  certain  little  follies  about  her;  she  is  too  apt  to  re- 
gard every  distinguished  dinner-party  she  and  Stuart  attend  as  an 
event  of  enormous  and  universal  interest,  and  beyond  London 
society  her  sympathies  hardly  reach,  except  in  that  vague  charita- 
ble form  which  is  rather  pity  and  toleration  than  sympathy.  But 
she  is  kindly,  womanly,  soft;  she  has  no  small  jealousies  and  none 
of  that  petty  self-consciousness  which  makes  so  many  women  weari- 
some to  the  great  majority  of  plain  men,  who  have  no  wish  to  take 
their  social  exercises  too  much  an  serieux. 

44 1 was  curious  to  see  what  sort  of  a relationship  she  and  Miss 
Bretherton  had  developed  towaid  each  other.  Mrs.  Stuart  is  noth- 
ing if  not  cultivated;  her  light  individuality  floats  easily  on  the 
stream  of  London  thought,  now  with  this  current,  now  with  that, 
but  always  in  movement,  never  left  behind.  She  has  the  usual  liter- 
ary and  artistic  topics  at  her  fingers’  end,  and  so  she  knows  every- 
body, whenever  the  more  abstract  sides  of  a subject  begin  to  bore 
her,  she  can  fall  back  upon  an  endless  store  of  gossip  as  lively,  as 
brightly* colored,  and,  on  the  whole,  as  harmless  as  she  herself  is. 
Miss  Bretherton  had  till  a week  or  two  ago  but  two  subjects — 
Jamaica  and  the  stage— the  latter  taken  in  a somewhat  narrow  sense. 
Now,  she  lias  added  to  her  store  of  knowledge  a great  number  of 
first  impressions  of  London  notorieties,  which  naturally  throw  her 
mind  and  Mrs.  Stuart’s  more  frequently  into  contact  with  each 
other.  But  1 see  that,  after  all,  Mrs.  Stuart  had  no  need  of  any 
bridges  of  this  kind  to  bring  her  on  to  common  ground  with  Isabel 
Bretherton.  Her  strong  womanliness  and  the  leaven  of  warm-hearted 
youth  still  stirring  in  her  would  be  quite  enough  of  themselves,  and, 
besides,  there  is  her  critical  delight  in  the  girl’s  beauty,  and  the  little 
personal  pride  and  excitement  she  undoubtedly  feels  at  having,  in 
so  creditable  and  natural  a manner,  secured  a hold  on  the  most  in- 
teresting person  of  the  season*  It  is  curious  to  see  her  forgetting 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


29 


her  own  specialties,  and  neglecting  to  make  her  own  points,  that  she 
may  bring  her  companion  forward  and  set  her  in  the  best  light. 
Miss  Bretherton  takes  her  homage  very  prettily;  it  is  natural  to  her 
to  be  made  much  of,  and  she  does  not  refuse  it,  but  she  in  her  turn 
evidently  admires  enormously  her  friend’s  social  capabilities  and 
cleverness,  and  she  is  impulsively  eager  to  make  some  return  for 
Mrs.  Stuart’s  kindness — an  eagerness  which  shows  itself  in  the 
greatest  complaisance  toward  all  the  Stuarts’  friends,  and  in  a con- 
stant watchfulness  ior  anything  which  will  please  and  flatter  them. 

“ However,  here  1 am  as  usual  wasting  time  in  analysis  instead  of 
describing  to  you  our  Sunday.  It  was  one  of  those  heavenly  days 
with  which  May  startles  us  out  of  our  winter  pessimism,  sky  and 
earth  seemed  to  be  alike  clothed  in  a young  iridescent  beauty.  AYe 
found  a carriage  waiting  tor  us  at  the  station,  and  we  drove  along  a 
great  main  road  until  a sudden  turn  landed  us  in  a green  track 
traversing  a land  of  endless  commons,  as  wild  and  as  forsaken  of 
human  kind  as  though  it  were  a region  in  some  virgin  continent. 
On  either  hand  the  gorse  was  thick  and  golden;  great  oaks,  splendid 
in  the  first  dazzling  sharpness  of  their  spring  green,  threw  vast 
shadows  over  the  fresh  moist  grass  beneath,  and  over  the  lambs 
sleeping  beside  their  fleecy  mothers,  while  the  hawthorns  rose  into 
the  sky  in  masses  of  rose-tinted  snow,  each  tree  a shining  miracle  of 
white  set  in  the  environing  blue. 

“ Then  came  the  farm-house— -old,  red-brick,  red-tiled,  casemented 
— everything  that  the  aesthetic  soul  desires— the  farmer  and  his 
wife  locking  out  for  us,  and  a pleasant  homely  meal  ready  in  the 
parlor,  with  its  last-centuiy  woodwork. 

“ Forbes  was  greatly  in  his  element  at  lunch.  1 never  knew  him 
more  racy;  he  gave  us  biographies,  mostly  imaginary,  illustrated  by 
sketches,  made  in  the  intervals  of  eating*,  of  the  sitters  whose  por- 
traits he  has  condescended  to  take  this  year.  They  range  from  a 
bishop  and  a royalty  down  to  a little  girl  picked  up  in  the  London 
streets,  and  his  presentation  of  the  characteristic  attitudes  of  each — 
those  attitudes  which,  according  to  him,  betray  the  “ inner  soul  ” of 
the  bishop  or  the  foundling — was  admirable.  Then  he  fell  upon 
the  Academy — that  respected  body  of  which  1 suppose  he  will  soon 
be  the  president — and  tore  it  limb  from  limb.  With  what  face  I 
shall  ever  sit  at  the  same  table  with  him  at  the  Academy  dinners  of 
the  future— supposing  fortune  ever  exalts  me  again  as  she  did  this 
year  to  that  august  meal — I hardly  know.  Millais’s  faces,  Pettie’s 
knights,  or  Calderon’s -beauties — all  fared  the  same.  Y ou  could  not 
say  it  was  ill-natured;  it  was  simply  the  bare  truth  of  things  put  in 
the  whimsical  manner  which  is  natural  to  Forbes. 

“Miss  Bretherton  listened  to  and  laughed  at  it  all,  finding  her 
way  through  the  crowd  of  unfamiliar  names  and  allusions  with  a 
woman’s  cleverness,  looking  adorable  all  the  time  in  a cloak  of  some 
brown  velvet  stuff,  and  a large  hat  also  of  brown  velvet.  She  has  a 
beautiful  band,  fine  and  delicate,  not  specially  small,  but  full  of 
character;  it  was  pleasant  to  watch  it  playing  with  her  orange,  or 
smoothing  back  every  now  and  then  the  rebellious  locks  which  will 
stray,  do  what  she  will,  beyond  the  boundaries  assigned  to  them. 
Presently  AAr allace  was  ill-advised  enough  to  ask  her  which  pictures 
gbe  had  liked  best  at  the  Private  View ; she  replied  by  picking  out  a 


30 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


ball-room  scene  of  Forth’s  and  an  unutterable  mawkish  thing  of 
Halford’s — a troubadour  in  a pink  dressing-gown,  gracefully  inter- 
twined with  violet  scarves,  singing  to  a party  of  robust  young 
women  in  a “ light  which  never  was  on  sea  or  land.”  . “ You  could 
count  all  the  figures  in  the  first,”  she  said,  “ it  was  so  lifelike,  so 
real;”  and  then  Halford  was  romantic,  the  picture  was  pretty,  and 
she  liked  it.  1 looked  at  Forbes  with  some  amusement;  it  was  grati- 
fying, remembering  the  rodomontade  with  which  W allace  and!  had 
been  crushed  on  the  night  of  the  ‘ White  Lady,’  to  see  him  wince 
under  Miss  Bretherton’s  liking  of  the  worst  art  in  England!  Is  the 
critical  spirit  worth  something,  or  is  it  superfluous  in  theatrical  mat- 
ters and  only  indispensable  in  matters  of  painting!  I think  he 
caught  the*  challenge  in  my  eye,  for  he  evidently  felt  himself  in  some 
little  difficulty. 

“ * Oh,  you  couldn’t,’  he  said,  with  a groan, you  couldn’t  like 
that  ball-room — and  that  troubadour,  Heaven  forgive  us!  Well, 
there  must  be  something  in  it— there  must  be  something  in  it,  if  it 
really  gives  you  pleasure — I dare  say  there  is;  we’re  so  confoundedly 
uppish  in  the  way  we  look  at  things.  If  eilher  of  them  had  a par- 
ticle of  drawing  or  a scrap  of  taste,  if  both  of  them  weren’t  as  bare 
as  a broomstick  of  the  least  vestige  of  gift,  or  any  suspicion  of 
knowledge,  there  might  be  a good  deal  to  say  for  them!  Only,  mv 
dear  Miss  Bretherton,  you  see  it’s  really  not  a matter  of  opinion;  I 
assure  you  it  isn’t.  I could  prove  to  you  as  plain  as  that  two  and 
two  make  four,  that  Halford’s  figures  don’t  join  in  the  middle,  and 
that  Forth’s  men  and  women  are  as  flat  as  my  hand — there  isn’t  a 
back  among  them  1 And  then  the  taste,  and  the  color,  and  the  clap- 
trap idiocy  of  the  sentiment!  No,  1 don’t  think  I can  stand  it.  1 
am  all  for  people  getting  enjoyment  where  the}'  can,’  with  a defi- 
ant look  at  me.,  ‘ and  snapping  their  fingers  at  the  critics.  But  one 
must  draw  the  line  somewhere.  There’s  some  art  that’s  out  of  court 
from  the  beginning.’ 

“ 1 couldn’t  resist  it. 

“ ‘ Don’t  listen  to  him,  Miss  Bretherton,’  I cried.  ‘ If  1 were  you  1 
wouldn’t  let  him  spoil  your  pleasure;  the  great  thing  is  to  feel;  de- 
fend your  feeling  against  him!  It’s  worth  more  than  his  criticisms.’ 

“ Forbes’s  eyes  looked  laughing  daggers  at  me  from  under  his 
shaggy  white  brows.  Mrs.  Stuart  and  Wallace  kept  their  counte- 
nances to  perfection;  but  1 had  him,  there’s  no  denying  it. 

“ ‘ Oh,  1 Know  nothing  about  it,’  said  Isabel  Bretherton,  divinely 
unconscious  of  the  little  skirmish  going  on  around  her.  ‘ You  must 
teach  me,  Mr.  Forbes.  1 only  know  what  touches  me,  what  1 like 
— that’s  all  I know  in  anything.  ’ 

“ ‘ It’s  all  we  any  of  us  know,’  said  Wallace  airily.  4 We  begin 
with  “ 1 like  ” and  ” 1 don’t  like,”  then  we  begin  to  be  proud,  and 
make  distinctions  and  find  reasons;  but  the  thing  beats  us,  and  we 
come  back  in  the  end  to  “ 1 like  ” and  “ L don’t  like.”  ’ 

“ The  lunch  over,  we  strolled  out  alon«:  the  common,  through 
heather  which  as  yet  was  a mere  brown  expanse  of  flowerless  under- 
growth, and  copses  which  overhead  were  a canopy  of  golden  oak- 
leaf,  and  carpeted  underneath  with  primroses  and  the  young  up-cur 
ling  bracken.  Presently  through  a little  wood  we  came  upon  a pond 
lying  wide  and  blue  before  us  under  the  breezy  May  sky,  its  shores 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


31 


fringed  with  scented  fir-wood  and  the  whole  air  alive  with  birds. 
We  sat  down  under  a pile  of  logs  fresh-cut  and  fragiant,  and  talked 
awajr  vigorously.  It  was  a little  difficult  often  to  keep  the  conversa- 
tion on  lines  which  did  not  exclude  Miss  Bretherton.  Forbes,  the 
Stuaits,  Wallace,  aud  1 are  accustomed  to  be  together,  and  one 
never  realizes  what  a freemasonry  the  intercourse  even  of  a capital 
is  until  one  tries  to  introduce  an  outsider  into  it.  We  talked  the 
theater,  of  course,  the  ways  of  different  actors,  the  fortunes  of  man- 
agers. Isabel  Bretherton  naturally  has  as  yet  seen  very  little;  her 
comments  were  mainly  personal,  and  all  of  a friendly,  enthusiastic 
kind,  for  the  profession  has  been  very  cordial  to  her.  A month  or 
five  weeks  more  and  her  engagement  at  the  Calliope  will  be  over. 
There  are  other  theaters  open  to  her,  of  course,  and  all  the  managers 
are  at  her  feet;  but  she  has  set  her  heart  upon  going  abroad  for  some 
time,  and  has,  1 imagine,  made  so  much  money  this  season  that  the 
family  can  not  in  decency  object  to  her  having  her  own  way.  ‘ 1 am 
wild  to  get  to  Italy,’  she  said  tome  in  her  emphatic,  impetuous 
way.  ‘ Sir  Walter  Rutherford  has  talked  to  me  so  much  about  it 
that  1 am  beginning  to  dream  of  it.  1 long  to  have  done  with  Lon- 
don and  be  oft!  This  English  sun  seems  to  me  so  chilly,’  and  she 
drew  her  winter  cloak  about  her  with  a little  shiver,  although  the 
day  was  really  an  English  summer  day,  and  Mrs.  Stuart  was  in  cot- 
ton. “ 1 come  from  such  warmth,  and  1 loved  it.  1 have  beenmak- 
iifg  acquaintance  with  all  sorts  of  horrors  since  1 came  to  London — 
face-ache  and  rheumatism  and  colds! — 1 scarcely  knew  there  were 
such  things  in  the  world.  And  1 never  knew  what  it  was  to  be 
tired  before.  Sometimes  I can  hardly  drag  through  my  work.  1 
hate  it  so:  it  makes  me  cross  like  a naughty  child!’ 

“ ‘ Do  you  know/  1 said,  flinging  myself  down  beside  her  on  the 
grass,  and  looking  up  at  her,  ‘ that  it’s  altogether  wrong?  Nature 
never  meant  you  to  feeHired;  it’s  monstrous,  it’s  against  the  natu- 
ral order  of  things!’ 

“ ‘ It’s  London,’  she  said,  with  her  little  sigh  and  the  drooping  lid 
that  is  so  prettily  pathetic.  ‘ 1 have  the  roar  in  my  ears  all  day,  and 
it  seems  to  be  humming  through  my  sleep  at  night.  And  then  the 
crowd,  and  the  hurry  people  are  in,  and  the  quickness  and  sharpness 
of  things!  But  1 have  only  a few  weeks  more,’  she  added,  brighten- 
ing, ‘ and  then  by  October  1 shall  be  more  used  to  Europe— the  cli- 
mate and  the  life.’ 

“ I am  much  impressed,  and  so  is  Mrs.  Stuart,  by  the  struggle  her 
nervous  strength  is  making  against  London.  All  my  nursing  of 
you,  Marie,  and  of  our  mother  has  taught  me  to  notice  these  things 
in  women,  and  I find  myself  taking  often  a very  physical  and  med- 
ical view  of  Miss  Bretherton.  You  see,  it  is  a case  of  a northern 
temperament  and  constitution  relaxed  by  tropical  conditions,  and 
then  exposed  once  more  in  an  exceptional  degree  to  the  strain  and 
stress  of  northern  life.  1 rage  when  I think  of  such  a piece  of  phys 
ical  excellence  marred  and  dimmed  by  our  harsh  English  struggle. 
And  all  for  what?  For  a commonplace,  make-believe  art,  vulgariz- 
ing in  the  long  run  both  to  the  artist  and  the  public!  There  is  a 
sense  of  tragic  waste  about  it.  Suppose  London  destroys  her  health 
— there  are  some  signs  of  it — what  a futile,  ironical  pathos  there 
would  be  in  it.  1 long  to  step  in,  to  * have  at  ’ somebody,  to  stop  it, 


MISS  BRETHERTOH. 


“ A little  incident  later  on  threw  a curious  light  upon  her.  We 
had  moved  on  to  the  other  side  ot  the  pond  and  were  basking  in  the 
fir-wood.  The  afternoon  sun  was  slanting  through  the  branches  on 
to  the  bosom  of  the  pond;  a splendid  Scotch  fir  just  beside  us  tossed 
out  its  red -limbed  branches  over  a great  bed  of  green  reeds,  starred 
here  and  there  with  yellow  irises.  The  woman  from  the  keeper’s 
cottage  near  had  brought  us  out  some  tea,  and  most  of  us  had  fallen 
into  a sybaritic  frame  of  mind  in  which  talk  seemed  to  be  a burden 
on  the  silence  and  easeful  peace  of  the  scene.  Suddenly  Wallace 
and  Forbes  tell  upon  the  question  of  Balzac,  of  whom  Wallace  has 
been  making  a study  lately,  and  were  soon  landed  in  a discussion  of 
Balzac’s  method  of  character- drawing.  Are  Eugene  de  Rastignac, 
le  Peie  Goriot,  and  old  Grandet  real  beings  or  mere  incarnations  of 
qualities,  mathematical  deductions  from  a given  point?  At  last  I 
was  drawn  in,  and  the  Stuarts:  Stuart  has  trained  his  wife  in  Balzac, 
and  she  has  a dry  original  way  of  judging  a novel,  which  is  stimu 
lating  and  keeps  the  ball  rolling.  It  was  the  first  time  that  the  talk 
had  not  centered  in  one  way  or  another  round  Miss  Bretherton,  who, 
ot  course,  was  the  first  consideration  throughout  the  day  in  all  our 
minds.  V\Te  grew  vehement  and  forgetful,  till  at  last  a little  move 
ment  of  hers  diverted  the  general  current.  She  had  taken  off  her 
hat  and  was  leaning  back  against  the  oak  under  which  she  sat, 
watching  with  parted  lips  and  a gaze  of  the  purest  delight  and  won 
der  the  movements  of  a nut-hatch  overhead,  a creature  of  the  wo®d- 
pecker  kind,  with  delicate  purple  gray  plumage,  who  was  tapping 
the  branch  above  her  for  insects  with  his  large  disproportionate  bill, 
and  then  skimming  along  to  a sand-bank  a little  distance  off,  where 
he  disappeared  with  his  prey  into  his  nest. 

“ ‘ Hal’  said  Wallace,  who  is  a bird-lover,  ‘a  truce  to  Balzac, 
and  let  us  watch  those  nut-hatches!  Miss  Bretherton’s  quite  right 
to  prefer  them  to  French  novels.  ’ * 

“ ‘ French  novels!’  she  said,  withdrawing  her  eyes  from  the 
branch  above  her,  and  frowning  a little  at  Wallace  as  she  spoke. 
‘ Please  don’t  expect  me  to  talk  about  them — I know  nothing  about 
them— I have  never  wished  to.’ 

“ Her  voice  had  a tone  almost  of  hauteur  in  it.  1 have  noticed  it 
before.  It  is  the  tone  of  the  famous  actress  accustomed  to  believe  in 
herself  and  her  own  opinion.  I connected  it,  too,  with  all  one  hears 
of  her  determination  to  look  upon  herself  as  charged  with  a mission 
for  the  relorm  of  stage  morals.  French  novels  and  French  actresses! 
apparently  she  regards  them  all  as  so  many  unknown  horrors,  stand- 
ing in  the  way  of  the  purification  of  dramatic  art  by  a beautiful 
young  person  with  a high  standard  of  duty.  It  is  very  odd!  Evi- 
dently she  is  the  Scotch  Presbyterian’s  daughter  still,  for  all  her  pro- 
fession, and  her  success,  and  her  easy  ways  with  the  Sabbath!  Her 
remark  produced  a good  deal  of  unregenerate  irritation  in  me.  If 
she  wrere  a first-rate  artist  to  begin  with,  1 was  inclined  to  reflect, 
this  moral  enthusiasm  would  touch  and  charm  one  a good  deal 
more;  as  it  is,  considering  her  position,  it  is  rather  putting  the  cart 
before  the  horse.  But,  of  course,  one  can  understand  that  it  is  just 
these  traits  in  her  that  help  her  to  make  the  impression  she  does  on 
London  society  and  the  orthodox  public  in  general. 

“ Wallace  and  1 went  off  after  the  nut-hatches,  enjoying  a private 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


33 


laugh  by  the  way  over  Mrs.  Stuart’s  little  look  of  amazement  and 
discomfort  as  Miss  Bretlierton  delivered  herself.  When  we  came 
back  we  found  Forbes  sketching  her — she  silting  rather  flushed  and 
silent  under  the  tree,  and  he  drawing  away  and  working  himself  at 
every  stroke  into' a greater  and  greater  enthusiasm.  And  certainly 
she  was  as  beautiful  as  a dream,  sitting  against  that  tree,  with  the 
brown  heather  about  hei  and  the  young  oak-leaves  overhead.  But 
I returned  in  an  antagonistic  frame  of  mind,  a little  out  of  patience 
with  her  and  her  beauty,  and  wondering  why  Nature  always  blun- 
ders somewhere! 

“ However,  on  the  way  home  she  had  another  and  a pleasanter 
surprise  for  me.  A carriage  was  waiting  for  us  on  the  mam  road, 
and  we  strolled  toward  it  through  the  gorse  and  the  trees  and  the 
rich  level  evening  lights.  I dropped  behind  for  some  primroses  still 
lingering  in  bloom  beside  a little  brook;  she  stayed  too,  and  we  were 
together,  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  rest. 

“ ‘ Mr.  Kendal,’  she  said,  looking  straight  at  me,  as  1 handed  the 
flowers  to  her,  ' you  may  have  misunderstood  something  just  now. 
I don’t  want  to  pretend  to  what  I haven’t  got.  1 don’t  know  French, 
and  1 can’t  read  French  novels  if  I wished  to  ever  so  much.’ 

“ What  was  I to  say?  She  stood  looking  at  me  seriously,  a little 
proudly,  having  eased  her  conscience,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  at  some 
cost  to  herself.^  I felt  at  first  inclined  to  turn  the  thing  off  with  a 
jest^but  suddenly  1 thought  to  myself  that  1 too  would  speak  my 
mind. 

44  1 Well,*  I said  deliberately,  walking  on  beside  her;  * you  lose  a 
good  deal.  There  are  hosts  of  French  novels  which  I would  rather 
not  see  a woman  touch  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers:  but  there  are 
others,  which  take  one  into  a bigger  world  than  we  English  people 
with  oui  parochial  ways  of  writing  and  seeing  have  any  notion  of. 
George  Sand  carries  you  full  into  the  mid-European  stream— you 
feel  it  flowing,  you  are  brought  into  contact  with  all  the  great  ideas, 
-all  the  big  interests;  she  is  an  education  in  herself.  And  then  Bal- 
zac! he  lias  such  a range  and  breadth,  he  teaches  one  so  much  of 
human  nature,  and  with  such  conscience,  such  force  of  representa- 
tion! It’s  the  same  with  their  novels  as  with  their  theater.  What- 
ever other  faults  he  may  have,  a first-rate  Frenchman  of  the  artistic 
sort  takes  more  pains  over  his  work  than  anybody  else  in  the  world. 
They  don’t  shirk,  they  throw  theii  life-blood  into  it,  whether  it’s  act- 
ing, or  painting,  or  writing.  You’ve  never  seen  Destor^ts,  1 think? 
- —no,  of  course  not,  and  you  will  be  gone  before  she  comes  again. 
What  a pity!’ 

J Miss  Bretherton  picked  one  of  my  primroses  ruthlessly  to  pieces, 
and  flung  it  away  from  her  with  one  of  her  nervous  gestures.  4 1 am 
* not  sorry,’  she  said.  4 Nothing  would  have  induced  me  to  go  and 
see  her.’ 

4 4 4 Indeed!’  1 said,  waiting  a little  curiously  for  wbat  she  would 
say  next. 

4 4 4 It’s  not  that  1 am  jealous  of  her,’  she  exclaimed,  with  a quick 
proud  look  at  me;  4 not  that  1 don’t  believe  she’s  a great  actress;  but 
I camt  separate  her  acting  from  what  she  is  herself.  It  is  women 
like  that  who  bring  discredit  on  the  whole  profession — it  is  women 
like  that  who  make  people  think  that  no  good  woman  can  be  an 


34 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


actress.  1 resent  it,  and  1 mean  to  take  the  other  line.  1 want  to 
prove,  if  1 can,  that  a woman  may  be  an  actress  and  still  be  a lady, 
still  be  treated  just  as  you  treat  the  women  you  know  and  respect l 
1 mean  to  prove  that  there  need  never  be  a word  breathed  against 
her,  that  she  is  anybody’s  equal,  and  that  her  private  life  is  her  own, 
and  not  the  public’s.  It  makes  my  blood  boil  to  hear  the  way  people 
— especially  men— talk  about  Madame  Desfor&s;  there  is  not  one  of 
you  who  would  let  your  wife  or  your  sister  shake  hands  with  her, 
and  yet  how  you  rave  about  her,  how  you  talk  as  if  there  were 
nothing  in  the  world  but  genius — and  French  genius!’ 

“ It  struck  me  that  1 had  got  to  something  very  much  below  the 
surface  in  Miss  Bretlierton.  It  was  a curious  outburst ; 1 remem- 
bered how  often  her  critics  had  compared  her  to  Desfor6ts,  greatly 
to  her  disadvantage.  Was  this  championship  of  virtue  quite  genu- 
ine? or  was  it  merely  the  best  means  of  defending  herself  against  a 
rival  by  the  help  of  British  respectability? 

“ ‘ Madame  Destor^ts,  I said,  perhaps  a little  dryly,  * is  a riddle  to 
her  best  friends,  and  probably  to  herself;  she  does  a thousand  wild, 
imprudent,  bad  things  it  you  will,  but  she  is  the  greatest  actress  the 
modem  world  has  seen,  and  that’s  something  to  have  done  for  your 
generation.  To  have  moved  the  feelings  and  widened  the  knowledge 
of  thousands  by  such  delicate,  such  marvelous,  such  conscientious 
work  as  hers— there  is  an  achievement  so  great,  so  masterly,  that  I 
for  one  will  throw  no  stones  at  her!’ 

“ It  seemed  to  me  all  through  as  though  1 were  speaking  perverse- 
ly; I could  have  argued  on  the  other  side  as  passionately  as  Isabel 
Bretherton  herself;  but  1 was  thinking  of  her  dialogue  with  the 
Prince,  of  that  feeble,  hysterical  death-scene,  and  it  irritated  me  that 
she,  with  her  beauty,  and  with  British  Philistinism  and  British  virt- 
ue to  back  her,  should  be  trampling  on  DesforSts  and  genius.  But 
1 was  conscious  of  my  audacity.  It  a certain  number  of  critics  Lava 
been  plain-spoken,  Isabel  Bretherton  has  none  the  less  been  sur- 
rounded for  months  past  with  people  who  have  impressed  upon  her 
that  the  modern  theater  is  a very  doubtf  ul  business,  that  her  acting 
is  as  good  as  anybody’s,  and  that  her  special  mission  is  to  regenerate 
the  manners  of  the  stage.  To  have  the  naked,  artistic  view  thrust 
upon  her — that  it  is  the  actress’s  business  to  act , and  that  if  she  doe& 
that  well,  whatever  may  be  her  personal  shortcomings,  her  genera- 
tion has  cause  to  be  grateful  to  her — must  be  repugnant  to  her.  She, 
too,  talks  about  art,  but  it  is  like  a child  who  learns  a string  of  long 
words  without  understanding  them.  She  walked  on  beside  me  while 
1 cooled  down  and  thought  what  a fool  1 had  been  to  endanger  a 
friendship  which  had  opened  so  well— her  wonderful  lips  opening 
once  or  twice  as  though  to  speak,  and  her  quick  breath  coming  and 
going  as  she  scattered  the  yellow  petals  of  the  flowers  far  and  wide 
with  a sort  of  mute  passion  which  sent  a thrill  through  me.  It  was 
as  though  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak,  and  1 waited  awk- 
wardly on  Providence,  wishing  the  others  were  not  so  far  off.  But 
suddenly  the  tension  of  her  mood  seemed  to  give  way.  Her  smile 
flashed  out,  and  she  turned  upon  me  with  a sweet,  eager  gracious- 
ness,  quite  indescribable. 

“ ‘ No,  we  won't  throw  stones  at  her!  She  is  jrreat,  1 know,  but 
that  other  feeling  is  so  strong  in  me.  I care  for  my  art;  it  seems  to 


MISS  BRETIIERTOK. 


35 


me  grand,  magnificent! — but  1 think  1 care  still  more  for  making 
people  feel  it  is  work  a good  woman  can  do,  for  holding  my  own  in 
it,  and  asserting  myself  against  the  people  who  behave  as  if  all 
actress  es  had  done  the  things  that  Madame  Desforets  has  done.  Don't 
think  me  narrow  and  jealous.  1 should  hate  you  and  the  Stuarts  to 
think  that  of  me.  You  have  all  been  so  kind  to  me — such  good, 
real  friends!  1 shall  never  forget  this  day.  Oh!  look,  there  is  the 
carriage  standing  up  there.  I wish  it  was  the  morning  and  not  the 
evening,  and  that  it  might  all  come  again!  1 hate  the  thought  of 
London  and  that  hot  theater  to-morrow  night.  Oh,  my  primroses! 
YVhat  a wretch  I am!  I've  lost  them  nearly  all.  Look,  just  that 
bunch  over  there,-  Mr.  Kendal,  before  we  leave  the  common.' 

44  I sprung  to  get  them  for  her,  and  brought  back  a quantity.  She 
took  them  in  her  hand— now.  unlike  other  women  she  is  after  all,  in 
spite  of  her  hatred  of  Bohemia!— and,  raising  them  to  her  lips,  she 
waved  a farewell  through  them-  to  the  great  common  lying  behind 
us  in  the  evening  sun.  ‘ How  beautiful!  how  beautiful!  This  En- 
glish country  is  so  kind,  so  friendly!  It  has  gone  to  my  heart.  Good- 
night, you  wonderful  place!’ 

“ She  had  conquered  me  altogether.  It  was  done  so  warmly — with 
such  a winning,  spontaneous  charm.  1 cannot  say  what  pleasure  1 
got  out  of  those  primroses  lying  in  her  soft  udgloved  hand  all  the 
way  home.  Henceforward,  1 feel  she  may  make  what  judgments  and 
draw  what  lines  she  pleases;  she  won’t  change  me,  and  1 have  some 
hopes  of  modifying  her;  but  1 am  not  very  likely  to  feel  annoyance 
toward  her  again.  ~ She  is  like  some  frank,  beautiful,  high-spirited 
child  playing  a game  she  only  half  understands.  I wish  she  under- 
stood it  better.  1 should  like  to  help  her  to  understand  it — but  1 
won’t  quarrel  with  her,  even  in  my  thoughts,  any  more! 

44  On  looking  over  this  letter  it  seems  to  me  that  if  you  were  not 
you,  and  I were  not  1,  you  might  with  some  plausibility  accuse  me 
of  being — what? — in  love  with  Miss  Bretherton?  But  you  know  me 
too  well.  You  know  1 am  one  of  the  old-fashioned  people  who  be- 
lieve in  community  of  interest — in  belonging  to  the  same  world. 
“When  1 come  coolly  to  think  about  it,  I can  hardly  imagine  two 
worlds,  whether  outwardly  or  inwardly,  more  wide  apart  than  mine 
and  Miss  Bretherton’s.  ” 


CHAPTER  V. 

• During!  the  three  weeks  which  elapsed  between  the  two  expedi- 
tions of  the  “ Sunday  League,*’  Kendal  saw  Miss  Bretherton  two  or 
three  times  under  varying  circumstances.  One  night  he  took  it  into 
his  head  to  go  to  the  pit  of  the  Calliope,  and  came  away  more  per- 
suaded than  before  that  as  an  actress  there  was  small  prospect  for 
her.  Had  she  been  an  ordinary  mortal,  he  thought,  the  original 
stufl:  in  her  might  have  been  disciplined  into  something  really  valu- 
able by  the  common  give-and-take,  the  normal  rubs  and  difficulties 
of  her  profession.  But,  as  it  was,  she  had  been  lifted  at  once  by  the 
force  of  one  natural  endowment  into  a position  which,  from  the  art- 
istic point  of  view,  seemed  to  him  hopeless.  Her  instantaneous  sue- 


36 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


cess — dependent  as  it  was  on  considerations  wholly  outside  those  o £ 
dramatic  art — had  denied  her  all  the  advantages  which  are  to  be  won 
from  struggle  and  from  laborious  and  gradual  conquest.  And  more 
than  this,  it  had  deprived  her  of  an  ideal  ; it  had  tended  to  make  her 
take  her  own  performance  as  the  measure  of  the  good  and  possible. 
For,  naturally,  it  was  too  much  to  expect  that  she  herself  should 
analyze  truly  the  sources  and  reasons  of  her  popularity.  She  must 
inevitably  believe  that  some,  at  least,  of  it  was  due  to  her  dramatic 
talent  in  itself.  “Perhaps  some  of  it  is,”  Kendal  would  answer 
himself.  “ It  is  very  possible  that  1 am  not  quite  fair  to  her.  She 
has  all  the  faults  which  repel  n:e  most.  1 could  get  over  anything 
but  this  impression  of  bare  blank  ignorance  which  she  makes  upon 
me.  And  as  things  are  atpresenCit  is  impossible  that  she  should 
learn.  It  might  be  interesting  to  have  the  teaching  of  her!  But  it 
could  only  be  done  by  some  one  with  whom  she  came  naturally  into 
frequent  contact.  Nobody  could  thrust  himself  in  upon  her.  And 
she  seems  to  know  very  few  people  who  could  be  of  any  use  to  her.” 
On  another  occasion  he  came  across  her  in  the  afternoon  at  Mrs. 
Stuart's.  The  conversation  turned  upon  his  sister,  Madame  de  ChU- 
teauvieux,  for  whom  Mrs.  Stuart  had  a warm  but  very  respectful 
admiration.  They  had  met  two  or  three  times  in  London,  and  Ma- 
dame de  Ch&teauvieux’s  personal  distinction,  her  refinement,  her  in- 
formation, her  sweet  urbanity  of  manner,  had  made  a great  impres- 
sion upon  the  lively  little  woman,  who,  from  the  lower  level  of  her 
own  more  commonplace  and  conventional  success  in  sociely,  felt  an 
awe-struck  sympathy  lor  anything  so  rare,  so  unlike  the  ordinary 
type.  Her  intimacy  with  Miss  Bretherton  had  not  gone  far  before 
the  subject  of  “ Mr.  Kendal’s  interesting  sister  ” had  been  introduced, 
and  on  this  particular  afternoon,  as  Kendal  entered  her  drawing- 
room, his  ear  was  caught  at  once  by  the  sound  of  Marie’s  name* 
Miss  Bretherton  drew  him  impulsively  into  the  conversation,  and  he 
found  himself  describing  his  sister’s  mode  of  life,  her  interests,  her 
world,  her  belongings,  wilh  a readiness  such  as  he  was  not  very  apt 
to  show  in  the  public  discussion  of  any  subject  connected  with  him- 
self. But  Isabel  Bretherton’s  frank  curiosity,  her  kindling  eyes  and 
sweet  parted  lips,  and  that  strain  of  romance  in  her  which  made  her 
so  quickly  responsive  to  anything  which  touched  her  imagination, 
were  not  easy  to  resist.  She  was  delightful  to  his  eye  and  sense,  and 
he  was  as  conscious  as  he  had  ever  been  of  her  delicate  personal 
charm.  Besides,  it  was  pleasant  to  him  to  talk  of  that  Parisian 
world,  in  which  he  was  himself  vitally  interested,  to  any  one  so 
naive  and  fresh.  Her  ignorance,  which  on  the  stage  had  annoyed 
him,  in  private  life  had  its  particular  attractiveness.  And,  with  re- 
gard to  this  special  subject,  he  was  conscious  of  breaking  down  a 
prejudice;  he  felt  the  pleasure  of  conqueiing  a great  reluctance  in 
her.  Evidently  on  starting  in  London  she  had  set  herself  against 
everything  that  she  identified  with  the  great  T rench  actress  who  had 
absorbed  the  theater-going  public  during  the  previous  season;  not 
from  personal  jealousy,  as  Kendal  became  ultimately  convinced,  but 
from  a sense  of  keen  moral  revolt  against  Madame  DesforiHs’  no- 
torious position  and  the  stories  of  her  private  life  which  were  cur- 
rent in  all  circles.  She  had  decided  in  her  own  mind  that  French 
art  meant  a tainted  art,  and  she  had  shown  herself  very  restive— 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


37 


Kendal  liad  seen  something  of  it  on  their  Surrey  expedition — under 
any  attempts  to  make  her  share  the  interest  which  certain  sections  of 
the  English  cultivated  public  feel  in  foreign  thought,  and  especially 
in  the  foreign  theater.  Kendal  took  particular  pains,  when  they  glided 
off  from  the  topic  of  his  sister  to  more  general  matters,  to  make  her 
realize  some  of  the  finer  aspects  of  the  French  world  of  which  she 
knew  so  little,  and  which  she  judged  so  harshly;  the  laborious 
technical  training  to  which  the  dwellers  on  the  other  side  of  the 
channel  submit  themselves  so  much  more  leadily  than  the  English  in 
any  matter  of  art;  the  intellectual  conscientiousness  and  refinement 
due  to  the  pressure  of  an  organized  ami  continuous  tradition,  and  so 
on.  He  realized  that  a good  deal  of  wliat  he  said  or  suggested  must 
naturally  be  lost  upon  her.  But  it  was  delightful  to  feel  her  mind 
yielding  to  his,  while  it  stimulated  her  sympathy  and  perhaps  roused 
her  surprise  to  find  in  him  every  now  and  then  a grave  and  unpre- 
tending response  to  those  moral  enthusiasms  in  herself  which  were 
too  real  and  deep  for  much  direct  expression. 

“ Whenever  1 am  next  in  Paris,”  she  said  to  him,  when  she  per- 
force rose  to  go,  with  that  pretty  hesitation  of  manner  which  was  so 
attractive  in  her,  “ would  you  mind — would  Madame  de  Chateau- 
vieux— if  1 asked  you  to  introduce  me  to  your  sister?  It  would  be 
a great  pleasure  to  me.” 

Kendal  rnacle  a very  cordial  reply,  and  they  parted  knowing  more 
of  each  otfier  than  they  had  yet  done.  Not  ihat  his  leading  impres- 
sion of  her  was  in  any  way  modified.  Incompetent  and  unpromis- 
ing as  an  artist,  delightful  as  a woman— had  been  his  earliest  verdict 
upon  her,  and  his  conviction  of  its  reasonaOleness  had  been  only 
deepened  by  subsequent  experience;  but  perhaps  the  sense  of  delight- 
fulness was  gaining  upon  the  sense  of  incompetence!  After  all, 
beauty  and  charm  and  sex  have  in  all  ages  been  too  much  for  the 
clever  people  who  try  to  reckon  without  them.  Kendal  was  far  too 
shrewd  not  to  recognize  the  very  natural  and  reasonable  character  of 
the  pioceeding,  and  not  to  smile  at  the  first  sign  of  it  in  his  own  per- 
son. Still,  he  meant  to  try,  if  he  could,  to  keep  the  two  estimates 
distinct,  and  neither  to  confuse  himself  nor  other  people  by  con- 
founding them.  It  seemed  to  him  &n  intellectual  point  of  honor  ta 
keep  his  head  perlectly  cool  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Bretherton’s  art- 
istic claims,  but  he  was  conscious  that  it  was  not  always  very  easy 
to  do — a consciousness  Ihat  made  him  sometimes  all  the  more  recal- 
citrant under  the  pressure  of  her  celebrity. 

For  it  seemed  to  him  that  in  society  he  heard  of  nothing  but  her 
— her  beauty,  her  fascination,  and  her  success.  At  every  dinner-table 
he  heard  siories  of  her,  some  of  them  evident  inventions,  but  all 
tending  in  the  same  direction — that  is  to  say,  illustrating  either  the 
girl’s  proud  independence  and  her  determination  to  be  patronized  by 
nobody,  not  even  by  royalty  itself,  or  her  lavish  kind  heartedness, 
and  generosity  toward  the  poor  and  the  infeiiors  of  her  own  profes- 
sion. She  was  lor  the  momenta  the  great  interest  of  London,  and 
people  talked  of  her  populaiity  and  social  prestige  as  a sign  of  the 
times  and  a proof  of  the  changed  position  of  the  theater  and  of  those 
belonging  to  it.  Kendal  thought  it  proved  no  more  than  that  an  ex- 
tremely beautiful  girl  of  irreproachable  character,  brought  promi- 
nently before  the  public  in  any  capacity  whatever,  is  sure  to  stir  the 


MISS  BltETHERTON. 


susceptible  English  heart,  and  that  Isabel  Bretherton’s  popularity 
was  not  one  which  would  in  the  long  run  affect  the  stage  at  all.  But 
he  kept  his  reflections  to  himself,  and  in  general  talked  about  her  no 
more  than  he  was  forced  to  do.  He  had  a sort  of  chivalrous  feeling 
that  those  whom  the  girl  had  made  in  any  degree  her  personal  friends 
ought,  as  far  as  possible,  to  stand  between  her  and  this  inquisitive 
excited  public.  And  it  was  plain  to  him  that  the  enormous  social 
success  was  not  of  her  seeking,  but  of  her  relations'. 

One  afternoon,  between  six  and  seven,  Kendal  was  working  alone 
in  his  room  with  the  unusual  prospect  of  a clear  evening  before 
him.  He  had  finished  a piece  of  writing,  and  was  standing  before 
the  fire  deep  in  thought  ozer  the  first  paragraphs  of  his  next  chapter, 
when  he  heard  a knock ; the  door  opened,  and  W allace  stood  on  the 
threshold. 

“ May  1 come  in?  It’s  a shame  to  disturb  you;  but  I’ve  really  got 
something  important  to  talk  to  you  about.  1 want  your  advice  bad- 
ly.” 

“Oh,  come  in,  by  all  means.  Here’s  some  cold  tea;  will  you 
have  some?  or  will  you  stay  and  dine?  1 must  dine  early  to-night 
for  my  work.  I’ll  ring  and  tell  Mason.” 

“No,  don’t;  1 can’t  stay..  1 must  be  in  Kensington  at  eight.” 
He  threw  himself  into  Kendal’s  deep  reading-chair,  and  looked  up 
at  his  friend  standing  silent  and  expectant  on  the  hearth-rug.  “ Do 
you  remember  that  play  of  mine  1 showed  you  in  the  spring?” 
Kendal  took  time  to  think. 

“Perfectly;  you  mean  that  play  by  that  young  Italian  fellow 
which  you  altered  and  translated?  1 remember  it  quite  well.  1 have 
meant  to  ask  you  about  it  once  or  twice  lately.” 

“ You  thought  well  of  it,  1 know.  Well,  my  sister  has  got  me 
into  the  most  uncomfortable  hobble  about  it.  You  know  I hadn’t 
taken  it  to  any  manager.  I’ve  been  keeping  it  by  me,  working  it  up 
here  and  there.  1 am  in  no  want  of  money  just  now,  and  1 had  set 
my  heart  on  the  thing’s  being  really  good— well  written  and  well 
&cted.  Well,  Agnes,  in  a rash  moment  two  or  three  days  ago,  and 
without  consulting  me,  told  Miss  Bretherton  the  whole  story  of  the 
play,  and  said  that  she  supposed  1 should  soon  want  somebody  to 
bring  it  out  for  me.  Miss  Bretherton  was  enormously  struck  with 
the  plot,  as  Agnes  told  it  to  her,  and  the  next  time  1 saw  her  she  in- 
sisted that  1 should  read  some  scenes  from  it  to  her—  ” 

“ Good  heavens!  and  now  she  has  offered  to  produce  it  and  play 
the  principal  part  in  it  herself,”  interrupted  Kendal. 

Wallace  nodded.  “ Just  so;  you  see,  my  relations  with  her  are  so 
friendly  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  say  no.  But  1 never  was 
in  a greater  fix.  She  was  enthusiastic.  She  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  after  I’d  done  reading,  repeating  some  of  the  passages,  go- 
ing through  some  of  the  situations,  and  wound  up  by  saying,  ‘ Give 
it  me,  Mr.  Wallace!  It  shall  be  the  first  thing  I bring  out  in  my 
October  season — if  you  will  let  me  haze  it.’  Well,  of  course,  I sup- 
pose most  people  would  jump  at  such  an  offer.  Her  popularity  just 
now  is  something  extraordinary,  and  I see  no  signs  of  its  lessening. 
An>  piece  she  plays  in  is  bound  to  be  a success,  and  I suppose"! 
should  make  a good  deal  of  money  out  of  it;  but  then,  you  see,  I 
don’t  want  the  money,  and—” 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


39 


“ Yes,  yes,  1 see,”  said  Kendal,  thoughtfully;  ” you  don’t  want 
the  money,  and  you  feel  that  she  will  ruin  the  play.  It’s  a great 
bore  certainly.” 

“ Well,  you  know,  how  could  she  help  ruining  it?  She  couldn^t 
play  the  part  of  Elvira— you  remember  the  plot? — even  decently.  It’s 
an  extremely  difficult  part.  It  would  be  superb — I think  so,  at  least 
— in  the  hands  of  an  actress  who  really  understood  her  business;  but 
Miss  Bretherton  will  make  it  one  long  stagey  scream,  without  any 
modulation,  any  shades,  any  delicacy.  It  drives  one  wild  to  think 
of  it.  And  yet  how,  in  the  name  of  fortune,  am  I to  get  out  of  it?” 

” You  had  thought,”  said  Kendal,  “ 1 remember,  of  Mrs.  Pearson 
for  the  heroine.” 

” les;  I should  have  tried  her.  She  is  not  first-rate,  but  at  least 
she  is  intelligent  ; she  understands  something  of  what  you  want  in  a 
part  like  that.  But  for  poor  Isabel  Bretherton,  and  those  about  her, 
the  great  points  in  the  play  will  be  that  she  will  have  long  speeches 
and  be  able  to  wear  ‘ mediaeval’  dresses!  1 don’t  suppose  she  ever 
heard  of  Aragon  in  her  life.  Just  imagine  her  playing  a high-born 
Spanish  woman  of  the  fifteenth  century!  Can’t  you  see  her?” 

“ Well,  after  all,”  said  Kendal,  with  a little  laugh,  ” I should  see 
what  the  public  goes  for  mostly — that  is  to  say,  Isabel  Bretherton  in 
effective  costume.  No,  it  would  be  a great  failure— not  a failure,  of 
course,  in  the  ordinary  sense.  Her  beauty,  the  mediaeval  get-up, 
and  the  romantic  plot  of  the  piece,  would  carry  it  through,  and,  as 
you  say,  you  would  probably  make  a great  deal  by  it.  But,  artistic- 
ally, it  would  be  a ghastly  failure.  And  Hawes!  Hawes,  I sup- 
pose, would  play  Macias?  Good  heavens!” 

“Yes,”  said  Wallace,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hands  and  looking 
gloomily  out  of  window  at  the  spire  of  St.  Bride’s  Church.  ” Pleas- 
ant, isn’t  it?  But  what  on  earth  am  1 to  do?  1 never  was  in  a 
greater  hole.  I’m  not  the  least  in  love  with  that  girl,  Kendal,  but 
there  isn’t  anything  she  asked  me  to  do  for  her  that  1 wouldn’t  do  if 
I could.  She’s  the  warmest-hearted  creature — one  of  the  kindest, 
frankest,  sincerest  women  that  ever  stepped.  1 feel  at  times  that  I’d 
rather  cut  my  hand  off  than  hurt  her  feelings  by  throwing  her  offer 
in  her  face,  and  yet,  that  play  has  been  the  apple  of  my  eye  to  me 
for  months;  the  thought  of  seeing  it  spoiled  by  clumsy  handling  is 
intolerable  to  me.” 

” J suppose  it  would  hurt  her  feelings,”  said  Kendal  meditatively^ 
” if  you  refused.” 

“ les,”  said  Wallace  emphatically;  “ I believe  it  would  wound 
her  extremely.  You  see,  in  spite  of  all  her  success,  she  is  beginning 
to  be  conscious  that  there  are  two  publics  in  London.  There  is  the 
small  fastidious  public  of  people  who  take  the  theater  seriously,  and 
there  is  the  large  easy-going  public  who  get  the  only  sensation  they 
want  out  of  her  beauty  and  her  personal  prestige.  The  enthusiasts 
have  no  difficulty,  as  yet,  in  holding  their  own  against  the  scoffers, 
and  for  a long  time  Miss  Bretherton  knew  and  cared  nothing  for 
what  the  critical  people  said,  but  of  late  1 have  noticed  at  times  that 
she  knows  more  and  cares  more  than  she  did.  It  seems  to  me  that 
there  is  a little  growing  soreness  in  her  mind,  aud  just  now  if  1 re- 
fuse to  let  her  have  that  play  it  will  destroy  her  confidence  in  her 
friends,  as  it  were.  She  won’t  reproach  me,  she  won’t  quarrel  with 


40  MISS  BRETHERTOM. 

me,  but  it  will  go  to  her  heart.  Do,  for  heaven’s  sake,  Kendal,  help 
me  to  some  plausible  fiction  or  other!” 

44  1 wish  1 could,”  said  Kendal,  pacing  up  and  down,  his  gray 
hair  falling  forward  over  his  brow.  There  was  a pause,  and  then 
Kendal  walked  energetically  up  to  his  friend  and  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

44  You  oughtn’t  to  let  her  have  that  play,  Wallace;  I’m  quite  clear 
on  that.  Y7ou  know  how  much  1 like  her.  She’s  all  you  say,  and 
more;  but  art  is  art,  and  acting  is  acting.  1,  at  any  rate,  take  these 
things  seriously,  and  you  do  too.  We  rejoice  in  it  for  her  sake;  but, 
after  all,  when  one  comes  to  think  of- it,  this  popularity  of  hers  is 
enough  to  make  one  despair.  Sometimes  1 think  it  will  throw  back 
the  popular  dramatic  taste  for  years.  At  an}^  rate,  I am  clear  that 
if  a man  has  got  hold  of  a fine  work  of  art,  as  you  have  in  that  play, 
he  has  a duty  to  it  and  to  the  public.  You  are  bound  to  see  it 
brought  out  under  the  best  possible  conditions,  and  we  all  know  that 
Miss  Brel  hei  ton’s  acting,  capped  with  Hawes’s,  would  kill  it  from 
the  artistic  point  of  view.” 

44  Perfectly  true,  perfectly  true,”  said  Wallace.  44  Well,  would  you 
iiave  me  tell  her  so?” 

44  You  must  get  out  of  it  somehow.  Tell  her  that  the  part  is  one 
you  feel  won’t  suit  her — won’t  do  her  justice.” 

44  Much  good  that  would  do!  She  thinks  the  part  just  made  for  - 
her — costumes  and  all.” 

44  Well,  then,  say  you  haven’t  finished  your  revision,  and  you 
must  have  time  for  more  work  at  it;  that  will  postpone  the  thing, 
and  she  will  hear  of  something  else  which  will  put  it  out  of  her 
head.” 

44  There  are  all  sorts  of  reasons  against  that,”  said  Wallace;  44  it’s 
hardly  worth  while  going  through  them.  In  the  first  place,  she 
wouldn’t  believe  me;  in  the  second,  she  won’t  forget  it,  whatever 
happens,  and  it  would  only  put  the  difficulty  off  a tew  weeks  at 
mo'.t.  I feel  so  stupid  about  the  whole  thing.  1 like  her  too  much.  * 
I’m  so  afraid  of  saying  anything  io  hurt  her,  that  1 can’t  finesse. 
All  my  wits  desert  me.  1 say,  Kendal!” 

44  Well?” 

Wallace  hesitated,  and  glanced  up  at  his  friend  with  his  most  „ 
winning  expression. 

44  Do  yon  think  you  could  earn  my  eternal  gratitude  and  manage 
the  thiugfor  me?  You  know  we’re  going  to  Oxford  next  Sunday,  and 
I suppose  we  shall  go  to  Nuneham,  and  there  will  be  opportunities 
for  walks,  and  so.  on.  Could  you  possibly  take  it  in  hand?  She  has  - 
n immense  lespect  tor  you  intellectually.  If  you  tell  her  that  you’re 
«ure  the  part  won’t  suit  her,  that  she  won’t  do  herself  justice  in  it; 
if  you  could  lead  the  conversation  on  to  it  and  try  to  put  her  out 
of  love  for  the  scheme  without  seeming  to  have  a commission  from 
me  in  any  way,  1 should  be  indeed  everlastingly  obliged!  You 
wouldn’t  make  a mess  of  it,  as  I should  be  sure  to  do.  You’d  keep 
your  head  cooi.” 

44  Well!”  said  Kendal,  laughing,  balancing  himself  on  the  table 
facing  Wallace,  44  That’s  a tempting  prospect!  But  if  I don’t  help 
you  out  you’ll  give  in,  1 know;  you’re  the  softest  of  men,  and  I 
don’t  want  you  to  give  in.” 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


41 


“ \es,  of  course  1 shall  give  in,”  said  Wallace,  with  smiling  de» 
cision.  “ It  3Tou  don’t  want  me  to,  suppose  you  take  the  responsi- 
bility. I’ve  known  you  do  difficult  things  before;  }rou  manage 
somehow  to  get  youi  own  way  without  offending  people.” 

“ H’m,”  said  Kendal;  “ I don’t  know  whether  that’s  flattering  or 
not.”  He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  loom  again  cogitating, 

“ I don’t  mind  trying,”  he  said  at  last,  “ in  a very  gingerly  way.  1 
can’t  of  course,  undertake  to  be  brutal.  It  would  be  impossible  tor 
any  one  to  treat  her  roughly.  But  there  might  be  ways  of  doing  it. 
There’s  time  to  think  over  the  best  way  of  doing  it.  Supposing, 
however,  she  took  offense?  Supposing;  after  Sunday  next,  she  never 
speaks  to  either  of  us  again?” 

“Oh!”  said  Wallace",  wincing,  “1  should  give  up  the  play  at  “ 
once  if  she  really  took  it  to  heart.  She  attaches  one  to  her.  1 feel 
toward  her  as  though  she  were  a sister — only  more  interesting,  be- 
cause there’s  the  charm  of  novelty.” 

Kendal  smiled.  “ Miss  Bretherton  hasn’t  got  to  that  yet  with  me. 
Sisters,  to  my  mind,  are  as  interesting  as  anybody,  and  more  so. 
But  how  on  earth,  Wallace,  have  you  escaped  falling  in  love  with 
her  all  this  time?” 

“ Oh,  1 had  enough  of  that  last  year,”  said  Wallace,  abruptly  ris- 
ing and  looking  for  his  overcoat,  while  his  face  darkened;  “ it’s  a u 
experience  I don’t  take  lightly.” 

Kendal  was  puzzled  - then  his  thoughts  quickly  put  two  and  two 
together.  He  remembered  a young  Canadian  widow  who  had  been 
a good  deal  at  Mrs.  Stuart’s  house  the  year  before;  he  recalled  cer- 
tain suspicions  of  his  own  about  her  and  his  friend— her  departure 
from  London  and  W allace’s  long  absence  in  the  country.  But  he 
said  nothing,  unless  there  was  sympathy  in  the  cordial  grip  of  his 
hand  as  he  accompanied  the  other  to  the  door. 

On  the  threshold  Wallace  turned  irresolutely.  “ It  will  be  a risk 
next  Sunday,”  he  said;  “ I’m  determined  it  sha’n’t  be  anything  more. 
She  is  not  the  woman,  1 think,  to  make  a quarrel  out  of  a thing  like 
that.” 

“ Oh  no,”  said  Kendal;  “ keep  your  courage  up.  1 think  it  may 
be  managed.  \ou  give  me  leave  to  handle  * Elvira  ’ as  1 like.” 

“ Oh  heavens,  yes!”  said  Wallace;  “ get  me  out  of  the  scrape  any 
way  jou  can,  and  I’ll  bless  you  forever.  What  a brute  1 am  never 
to  have  asked  after  your  work!  Does  it  get  on?” 

“ As  much  as  auy  work  can  in  London  just  now.  1 must  take  it 
away  with  me  somewhere  into  the  country  next  month.  It  doesn’t 
like  dinner-parties.” 

“ Like  me,”  said  Wallace,  with  a shrug. 

“Nonsense!”  said  Kendal;  “you’re  made  for  them.  Good-" 
night.” 

“ Good-night.  It’s  awfully  good  of  you.” 

“ What?  Wait  till  it’s  well  over!” 

Wallace  ran  down  the  stairs  and  was  gone.  Kendal  walked  back 
slowly  into  his  room  and  stood  meditating.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Wallace  did  not  quite  realize  the  magnificence  or  his  self  devotion. 

“ For,  after  all*  it’s  an  awkward  business,”  he  said  to  himself,  shak- 
ing his  head  over  his  own  temerity.  “ How  1 am  to  come  round  a 
girl  as  frank,  as  direct,  as  unconventional  as  that,  I don’t  quite 


42 


MISS  BREMERTON. 


know!  But  she  ought  not  to  have  that  play;  it’s  one  of  the  few 
good  things  that  have  been  done  for  the  English  stage  for  a long 
time  past.  It's  well  put  together,  the  plot  good,  three  or  four 
strongly  marked  characters,  and  some  fine  Victor  Hugoish  dialogue, 
especially  in  the  last  act.  But  there  is  extravagance  in  it,  as  there  is 
in  all  the  work  of  that  time,  and  in  Isabel  Bretherton’s  hands  a 
great  deal  of  it  would  be  grotesque;  nothing  would  save  it  but  her 
reputation  and  the  get-up,  and  that  would  be  too  great  a shame. 
No,  no;  it  will  not  do  to  have  the  real  thing  swamped  by  all  sorts 
of  irrelevant  cousiderations  in  this  way.  1 like  Miss  Bretherton 
heartily,  but  1 like  good  work,  and  it  1 can  save  the  play  from  her, 
I shall  save  her  too  from  what  everybody  with  eyes  in  his  head 
would  see  to  be  a failure !” 

It  was  a rash  determination.  Most  men  would  have  prudently 
left  the  matter  to  those  whom  it  immediately  concerned,  but  Kendal 
had  a quixotic  side  to  him,  and  at  this  time  in  his  life  a whole-heart- 
ed devotion  to  certain  intellectual  interests,  which  decided  his  action 
on  a point  like  this.  In  spite  of  his  life  in  society,  books  and  ideas 
were  at  this  moment  much  more  real  to  him  than  men  and  women. 
He  judged  life  from  the  standpoint  of  the  student  and  the  man  of 
letters,  in  whose  eyes  considerations,  which  would  have  seemed 
abstract  and  unreal  to  other  people,  had  become  magnified  and  all- 
imporlant.  In  this  matter  of  Wallace  and  Miss  Bretherton  he  saw 
the  struggle  between  an  ideal  interest,  so  to  speak,  and  a personal 
interest,  and  he  was  heart  and  soul  for  the  ideal.  Face  to  face  with 
the  living  human  creature  concerned,  his  principles,  as  we  have  seen, 
were  apt  to  give  way  a little,  for  the  self  underneath  was  warm- 
hearted and  impressionable,  but  in  his  own  room  and  by  himself 
they  were  strong  and  vigorous,  and  would  allow  of  no  compromise. 

Re  ruminated  over  the  matter  during  his  solitary  meal,  planning 
his  line  of  action.  “ It  all  depends,”  he  said  to  himself,  “ on  that 
— if  what  Wallace  says  about  her  is  true,  if  my  opinion  has  really 
any  weight  with  her,  1 shall  be  able  to  manage  it  without  offending 
her.  It’s  good  of  her  to  speak  of  me  as  kindly  as  she  seems  to  do; 
I was  anything  but  amiable  on  that  Surrey  Sunday.  However,  I 
felt  then  that  she  liked  me  all  the  better  for  plain-speaking;  one  may 
be  tolerably  safe  with  her  that  she  won’t  take  offense  unreasonably. 
What  a picture  she  made  as  she  pulled  the  primroses  to  pieces — it 
seemed  all  up  with  one!  And  then  her  smile  flashing  out — her 
eagerness  to  make  amends— to  sweep  away  a harsh  impression— her 
pretty  gratefulness — enchanting!” 

On  Saturday,  at  lunch-time,  Wallace  rushed  in  for  a few  minutes 
to  say  that  he  himself  had  avoided  Miss  Bretherton  all  the  week,  but 
that  things  were  coming  to  a crisis.  ” I’ve  just  got  this  note  from 
her,”  he  said  despairingly,  spreading  it  out  before  Kendal,  who  was 
making  a scrappy  bachelor  meal,  with  a book  on  each  side  of  him, 
at  a table  littered  with  papers. 

“ Could  anything  be  more  prettily  done?  If  you  don’t  succeed 
to-morrow,  Kendal,  1 shall  have  signed  the  agreement  before  three 
days  are  over!” 

It  was  indeed  a charming  note.  She  asked  him  to  fix  any  time  he 
chose  for  an  appointment  with  her  and  her  business  manager,  and 
spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  play.  ” It  cannot  help  being  a great 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


43 


success  ” she  wrote;  “ 1 feel  that  1 am  not  worthy  of  it,  but  1 wilt 
do  my  verv  best.  The  part  seems  to  me,  in  many  respects,  as  though 
it  tiad  been  written  for  me.  Ton  .have  never,  indeed,  l ^niemb  r 
consented  in  so  many  words  to  let  me  have  Elvira.  1 thought  I 
should  meet  you  at  Mrs.  Stuart’s  yesterday,  and  was  disappointed. 
But  1 am  sure  you  will  net  say  me  nay,  and  you  will  see  how  grate- 
ful I shall  he  for  the  chance  your  work  will  give  me.  ;i 

“\es  that’s  done  with  real  delicacy,  said  Kendal.  JNot  a 
word  of  ’ the  pecuniary  advantages  of  her  oftei,  though  she  must 
know  that  almost  any  author  would  give  his  eyes  just  now  for  such  a 
proposal  Well,  we  shall  see.  il  1 can’t  make  the  thing  look  les-> 
attractive  to  her  without  rousing  her  suspicions,  and  if  you  can  t 
screw  up  your  courage  to  refuse— why,  you  must  sign  the  agree- 
ment, my  dear  fellow,  and  make  the  best  of  it;  you  will  find  some- 

thino- else  to  inspire  you  before  long.”  « _ 

“ It’s  most  awkward,”  sighed  Wallace,  as  though  making  up  his 
perplexed  mind  with  difficulty.  “The  great  chance  is  that  by 
Ks’s  account  she  is  very  much  inclined  to  regard  your  opinion 
as&a  sort  of  intellectual  standard;  she  has  two  or  three  times  talked  of 
remarks  of  yours  as  if  they  had  struck  her.  Don  t quote  me  at  ally 
of  course.  Do  it  as  impersonally  as  you  can  - 

“ ]f  you  give  me  too  many  instructions,”  said  Kendal,  returning 
the  letter  with  a smile,  “ 1 shall  bungle  it.  Don’t  make  me  nerv- 
ous. I can't  promise  you  to  succeed,  and  you  mustn  t bear  me  a 

Sr"dfgrUlge!'No,  1 should  think  not.  By  the  way,  have  you 
heard  from  Agnes  about  the  trains  to-morrow?”  . 

«•  \ es  Paddington,  10  o’clock,  and  there  is  an8:15 
from  Oulham.  Mrs.  Stuart  says  we’re  to  luncn  in  Balliol,  run  down 
to  Nuneham  afterward,  and  leave  the  boats  there,  to  be  brought 

ba,C‘\es  we  lunch  with  that  friend  of  ours— 1 think  you  know  him 
—Herbert  Sartoris.  He  has  been  a Balliol  don  for  about  a year,  i 

only  trust  the  weather  will  be  what  it  is  to-day.  . 

The  weather  was  all  that  the  heart  of  man  could  desue,  and  the 
party  met  on  I he  Paddington  platform  with  every  prospect  of  an- 
other successful  day.  Forbes  turned  up  punctual  to  the  moment, 
and  radiant  under  the  combined  influence  of  the  sunshine  and  oi 
m£s  Bretherton’s  presence;  Wallace  had  made  all  the  arrangements 
perfectly  and  the  six  friends  found  themselves  presently  journeying 
along  to  Oxford,  at  that  moderated  speed  which  is  all  that  a Sunday 
exprfss  can  reach.  The  talk  flowed  with  zest  and  gayety;  theSurrey 
Suiiday  was  a pleasant  memory  in  the  background,  and  all  were  glad 
to  find  themselves  in  the  same  company  agaim  lt  seemed  to  Ken- 
dal that  Misss  Bretherton  was  looking  rather  thin  and  pale,  but  she 
would  not  admit  it,  and  chattered  from  her  corner  to  Forbes  and 
himself  with  the  mirth  and  abandon  of  a child  on  its  holiday.  At 
last  the  “ dreaming  spires”  of  Oxford  rose  from  the  green,  river- 
threaded  pfafn,  and  they  were  at  their  journey’s  end  A few  more 
minutes  saw  them  alighting  at  the  gate  of  the  new  Balliol,  where 
stood  Herbert  Sartoris  looking  out  for  them.  He  was  a young  don 
with  a classical  edition  on  hand  which  kept  him  up  workmg  after 
term,  within  reach  of  the  libraries,  and  he  led  the  way  to  some 


44 


MISS  BRETHERTOIL 


y*leasant  rooms  overlooking  the  inner  quadrangle  of  Balliol,  show- 
ing in  his  well-bred  look  and  manner  an  abundant  consciousness  of 
the  enormous  good  fortune  which  had  sent  him  Isabel  Bretherton 
for  a guest.  Foi  at  that  time  it  was  almost  as  difficult  to  obtain  the 
presence  ot  Miss  Bretherton  at  any  social  festivity  as  it  was  to  obtain 
that  of  royalty.  Her  Sundays  weie  the  objects  of  conspiracies  for 
weeks  beforehand  on  the  part  of  those  peisons  in  London  society 
who  were  least  accustomed  to  have  their  invitations  refused,  and  to 
have  and  to  hold  theiatnous  beauty  for  more  than  an  hour  in  his  own 
rooms,  and  then  to  enjoy  the  privilege  of  spending  five  or  six  long 
hours  on  the  river  with  her,  were  delights  wffiicli,  as  the  happy 
young  man  felt,  would  render  him  the  object  of  envy  to  all  at  least 
of  his  fellow-dons  below  Ihrty. 

In  streamed  the  party,  filling  up  the  hook-lined  rooms  and  startling 
the  two  old  scouts  in  attentance  into  an  unwonted  rapidity  of  action. 
Miss  Bretherton  wandered  *iound,  surveyed  the  familiar  Oxford 
luncheon-table,  groaning  under  the  time  honored  fare,  the  books,  the 
engravings,  and  the  sunny,  irregular  quadrangle  outside,  with  its 
rich  adorn ings  of  green,  and  threw  herselt  down  at  last  on  to  the 
low  window  seat  with  a sigh  ot  satisfaction. 

“ Ilow  quiet  you  are!  how  peaceful!  how  delightful  it  must  be  to 
live  here!  It  seems  as  if  one  were  in  another  world  from  London. 
Tell  me  what  that  building  is  over  there;  it's  too  new,  it  ought  to 
be  old  and  gray  like  the  colleges  we  saw  coming  up  here.  Is  every- 
body gone  away — ‘ gone  down  ’ you  say?  I should  like  to  see  all 
the  learned  people  walking  about  for  once.” 

“ 1 could  show  you  a good  many  if  there  were  time,”  said  young 
Saitoris,  hardly  knowing  however  what  he  was  saying,  so  lost  was 
he  in  admiral  ion  of  that  maivelous  changing  face.  “ The  vacation 
is  the  time  ttiey  show  themselves;  it’s  like  owls  coming  out  at  night. 
You  see,  Miss  Bretherton,  we  don’t  keep -many  of  them;  they’re  in 
the  way  in  term  time  But  in  vacation  they  have  the  colleges  and 
the  parks  and  the  Bodleian  to  themselves,  and  you  may  study  their 
ways,  and  their  spectacles,  and  their  umbrellas,  under  the  most 
favorable  conditions.” 

“ Oh  yes,”  said  Miss  Bretherton,  with  a little  scorn,  “ people 
always  make  tun  of  what  they  are  proud  of.  But  I mean  to  believe 
that  you  are  all  learned,  and  that  everybody  here  works  himself  to 
death,  and  that  Oxford  is  quite,  quite  perfect!” 

“ Did  you  hear  what  Miss  Bretherton  was  saying,  Mrs.  Stuart?” 
said  Forbes,  when  they  were  seated  at  luncheon.  “ Oxford  is  per- 
fee\  she  declares  already;  1 don’t  think  1 quite  like  it:  it’s  too  hot 
to  last.” 

“ Am  1 such  a changeable  creature,  then?”  said  Miss  Bretherton, 
smiling  at  him.  “ Do  you  generally  find  my  enthusiasms  cool 
down?” 

“ You  are  as  constant  as  you  are  kind,”  said  Forbes,  bowing  to 
her;  “ I am  only  like  a child  who  sighs  to  see  a pleasure  nearing  its 
highest  point,  lest  tirere  should  be  nothing  so  good  afterward.” 

“ Nothing  so  good!*’  she  said,  “ and  I have  only  had  one  little 
drive  through  the  streets.  Mr  Wallace,  are  you  and  Mrs.  Stuart 
really  going  to  forbid  me  sight-seeing?” 

“Of  course!”  said  Wallace  emphatically.  “That’s  one  of  the 


MISS  BRETHERTOM. 


45 


fundamental  rules  of  the  society.  Our  charter  would  be  a dead 
letter  if  we  let  you  enter  a single  college  on  your  way  to  the  river 
to-day.” 

“ The  only  art,  my  dear  Isabel,” -said  Mrs.  Stuart,  44  that  you  will 
be  allowed  to  study  to-day,  will  be  the  art  of  conversation.” 

44  And  a most  fatiguing  one,  too!”  exclaimed  Forbes;  44  it  beats 
sight-seeing  hollow.  But,  my  dear  Miss  Bretherton,  Kendal  and  I 
will  make  it  up  to  you.  We’ll  give  you  an  illustrated  history  of 
Oxford  on  the  way  to  Nuneham.  I’ll  do  the  pictures,  and  he  shall 
do  the  letterpress.  Oh!  the  good  times  I’ve  had  up  here — much 
better  than  he  ever  had  ” — nodding  across  at  Kendal,  who  was  list- 
ening. “ He  was  too  proper-behaved  to  enjoy  himselt;  he  got  all 
the  right  things,  all  the  proper  first-classes  and  prizes,  poor  fellow! 
But,  as  for  me,  I used  to  scribble  over  my  note-books  all  lecture- 
time, and  amuse  myself  the  rest  of  the  day.  And  then,  you  see,  I 
was  up  twenty  years  earlier  than  he  was,  and  the  world  was  not  as 
virtuous  then  as  it  is  now,  by  a long  way.” 

Kendal  was  interrupting,  when  Forbes,  who  was  in  one  of  his 
maddest  moods,  turned  round  upon  his  chair  to  watch  a figure 
passing  along  the  Quadrangle  in  front  of  the  bay-window. 

”1  say,  Sartoris,  isn’t  that  Camden,  the  tutor  who  was  turned 
out  of  Magdalen  a year*  or  two  ago  for  tliaCatheistical  book  of  his, 
and  whom  you  took  in,  as  you  do  all  the  disreputables?  Ah,  I 
knew  it ! 

“ * By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes.’ 

That’s  not  mine,  my  dear  Miss  Bretherton;  it’s  Shakespeare’s  first, 
Charles  Lamb’s  afterward.  But  look  at  him  well— he’s  a heretic, 
a real,  genuine  heretic.  Twenty  years  ago  it  would  have  been  a 
thrilling  sight;  but  now,  alas!  it’s  so  common  that  it’s  not  the  vic- 
tim but  the  persecutors  who  are  the  curiosity.” 

44  I don’t  know  that,”  said  young  Sartoris.  “ We  liberals  are  by 
no  means  the  cocks  of  the  walk  that  we  were  a few  years  ago.  You 
see,  now  we  have  got  nothing  to  pull  against,  as  it  were.  So  long 
as  we  had  two  or  three  good  grievances,  we  could  keep  the  party 
together  and  attract  all  the  young  men.  We  were  Israel  going  up 
against  the  Philistines,  who  had  us  in  their  grip.  But  now,  things 
are  changed;  we've  got  our  own  way  all  round,  and  it’s  the  Church 
party  who  have  the  grievances  and  the  cry.  It  is  we  who  are  the 
Philistines  and  the  oppressors  in  our  turn,  and,  of  course,  the  young 
men  as  they  grow  up  are  going  into  opposition.” 

“ And  a very  good  thing,  too!”  said  Forbes.  4 4 It’s  the  only  thing 
that  prevents  Oxford  becoming  as  dull  as  the  rest  of  the  world.  All 
your  picturesqueness,  so  to  speak,  has  been  struck  out  of  the  struggle 
between  the  two  forces..  The  Church  force  is  the  one  that  has  given 
you  all  your  buildings  and  your  beauty,  while,  as  for  you  liberals, 
who  will  know  such  a lot  of  things  that  you're  none  the  happier  for 
knowing— well,  1 suppose  you  keep  the  place  habitable  for  the  plain 
man  who  doesn’t  want  to  be  bullied.  But  it’s  a very  good  thing 
the  other  side  are  strong  enough  to  keep  you  in  order.” 

The  conversation  flowed  on  vigorously — Forbes  guiding  it,  now 
liere,  now  there,  while  Kendal  presently  turned  away  to  talk  in  an 


46 


MISS  BllETHERTOlSr. 


undertone  to  Mrs.  Stuart,  who  sat  next  to  him.  at  the  further  corner 
of  the  table  from  Miss  Bretherton. 

“ Edward  has  told  you  ot  iny  escapade,”  said  Mrs.  Stuart.  “ Yesy 
I have  put  my  foot  in  if  dreadfully.  1 don’t  know  how  it  will  turn 
out,  I am  suie.  She’s  so  set  upon  it,  and  Edward  is  so  worried.  1 
don’t  know  how  1 came  to  tell  her.  You  see,  I’ve  seen  so  much  of 
her  lately,  it  slipped  out  when  we  were  talking.” 

‘‘It  was  very  natural,”  said  Kendal,  glad  to  notice  from  Mrs. 
Stuart’s  way  of  attacking  the  subject  that  she  knew  nothing  of  his 
own  share  in  the  matter.  It  would  have  embarrassed  him  to  be 
conscious  of  another  observer.  “ Oh,  a hundred  things  may  turn  up ; 
there  are  ways  out  of  these  things  if  one  is  determined  to  find  them.” 

Mrs.  Stuart  shook  her  head.  “ She  is  so  curiously  bent  upon  it. 
She  is  possessed  with  the  idea  that  the  play  will  suit  her  better  than 
any  she  has  had  yet.  Don’t  you  think  her  looking  very  tired?  1 
have  come  to  know  her  much  better  these  last  few  weeks,  and  it 
seems  absurd,  hut  1 get  anxious  about  her.  Of  course,  she  is  an 
enormous  success,  but  1 fancy  the  theatrical  part  of  it  has  not  been 
quite  so  great  as  it  was  at  first.” 

“ So  I hear,  too,”  said  Kendal,  “ the  theater  is  quite  as  full,  but 
the  temper  of  the  audience  a good  deal  flatter.” 

“Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Stuart:  “ and  then  there  is  that  curious  little 
sister  of  hers,  whom  you  haven’t  seen,  and  who  counts  for  a good 
deal.  1 believe  that  in  reality  she  is  very  fond  of  Isabel,  and  very 
proud  of  her,  but  she’s  very  jealous  of  her  too,  and  she  takes  her 
revenge  upon  her  sister  for  her  beauty  and  her  celebrity  by  collecting 
the  hostile  things  people  say  about  her  acting,  and  pricking  them 
into  her  every  now  and  then,  like  so  many  pins.  At  first  Isabel  was 
so  sure  of  herself  and  the  public  that  she  took  no  notice— it  seemed 
to  her  only  what  every  actress  must  expect.  But  now  it  is  different. 
She  is  not  so  strong  as  she  was  when  she  came  over,  nor  so  happy, 
1 think,  and  the  criticisms  tell  more.  She  is  heartily  sick  of  the 
‘ White  Lady,’  and  is  bent  upon  a change,  and  I believe  she  thinks 
this  play  of  Edward’s  is  just  what  she  wants  to  enable  her  to 
strengthen  her  hold  upon  the  public.” 

“ There  never  was  a greater  delusion,”  said  Kendal;  “ it’s  the  last 
part  in  the  word  she  ought  to  attempt.  Properly  speaking,  unless 
she  puts  it  in,  there’s  no  posing  in  it,  none  of  that  graceful  atti- 
tudinizing she  does  so  well.  It’s  a long  tragic  part — a tremendous 
strain,  and  would  take  all  the  powers  of  the  most  accomplished  art 
to  give  it  variety  and  charm.” 

” Oh,  I know,”  sighed  Mrs.  St uart,  “ 1 know.  But  what  is  to 
be  done?” 

Kendal  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a smile,  feeling  as  hopeless  as 
she  did.  The  paleness  of  the  beautiful  face  opposite  indeed  had 
touched  his  sympathies  very  keenly,  and  he  was  beginning  to  think 
the  safety  ot  Wallace’s  play  not  such  a desperately  important  matter 
after  all.  However,  there  was  his  promise,  and  he  must  go  on  with 
it.  ” But  I’ll  be  hanged,”  he  said  to  himself,  “ if  1 come  within  a 
thousand  miles  of  hurting  her  feelings.  Wallace  must  do  that  for 
himself  if  he  wants  to.” 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Miss  Bretherton  should  be  allowed  two 
breaches,  and  two  only,  of  the  law  against  sight-seeing— a walk 


MISS  BRETIIERTON. 


47 


through  the  schools’-quadrangle,  and  a drive  down  High  Street. 
Mr.  Sartoris,  who  had  been  an  examiner  during  the  summer  term, 
and  had  so  crept  into  the  good  graces  of  the  Clerk  of  the  Schools, 
was  sent  off  to  suborn  that  functionary  for  the  keys  of  the  iron  gates 
which  on  Sunday  shut  out  the  Oxford  world  from  the  sleepy  pre- 
cincts of  the  Bodleian.  The  old  clerk  was  in  a lax  vacation  mood, 
and  the  envoy  returned  key  in  hand.  Mrs.  Stuart  and  Forbes  un- 
dertook the  guidance  of  Miss  Bretherton,  while  the  others  started  to 
prepare  the  boats.  It  was  a hot  June  day,  and  the  gray  buildings, 
with  their  cool  shadows,  stood  out  delicately  against  a pale  blue 
sky  dappled  with  white  cloud.  Her  two  guides  led  Miss  Bretherton 
through  the  quadrangle  of  the  schools,  which,  fresh  as  it  was  from 
the  hands  of  the  restorer,  rose  into  the  air  like  some  dainty  white 
piece  of  old-world  confectionery.  For  the  windows  are  set  so  lightly 
m the  stone- work,  and  are  so  nearly  level  with  the  wall,  that  the 
whole  great  building  has  an  unsubstantial  card-board  air,  as  if  a 
touch  might  dint  it. 

44  Then  doctrinaires  call  it  a fault,  ’ * said  Forbes  indignantly,  point- 
ing out  the  feature  to  his  companions.  “ I’d  like  to  see  them  build 
anything  nowadays  with  half  so  much  imagination  and  charm.” 

They  looked  enviously  at  the  closed  door  of  the  Bodleian,  they 
read  the  Latin  names  of  the  schools  just  freshly  painted  at  intervals 
round  the  quadrangle,  and  then  Forbes  led  them  out  upon  the  steps 
in  front  of  the  Radcliffe  and  St.  Mary’s,  and  let  them  take  their  time 
a little. 

“ How  strange  that  there  should  be  anything  in  the  world,”  cried 
Miss  Bretherton,  “ so  beautiful  all  through,  so  all  of  a piece  as  this! 
i had  no  idea  it  would  be  half  so  good.  Don’t,  don’t  laugh  at  me, 
Mr.  Forbes  I have  not  seen  all  the  beautiful  things  you  other  peo- 
ple have  seen.  Just  let  me  rave.” 

” 1 laugh  at  you\”  said  Forbes,  standing  back  in  the  shadow  of 
the  archway  his  fine* lined  face  aglow  with  pleasure,  turned  toward 
her.  “7  who  have  got  Oxford  in  my  bones  and  marrow,  so  to 
speak!  Why,  every  stone  in  the  place  is  sacred  to  me!  Poetry  lives 
here,  if  she  has  fled  from  all  the  world  beside.  No,  no;  say  what 
you  like,  it  cannot  be  too  strong  for  me.” 

Mrs.  Stuart,  meanwhile,  kept  her  head  cool,  admired  all  that  she 
was  expected  to  admire,  and  did  it  well,  and  never  forgot  that  the 
carriage  was  waiting  for  them,  and  that  Miss  Bretherton  was  not  to 
be  tired.  It  was  she  who  took  charge  of  the  other  two,  piloted  them 
safely  into  the  fly,  carried  them  down  the  High  Street,  sternly  re- 
fused to  make  a stop  at  Magdalen,  and  finally  landed  them  in 
triumph  to  the  minute  at  the  great  gate  of  Christchurch.  Then  they 
strolled  into  the  quiet  cathedral,  delighted  themselves  with  its  irregu- 
lar bizarre  beauty,  its  unexpected  turns  and  corners,  which  gave  it  a 
capricious  fanciful  air  for  all  the  solidity  and  businesslike  strength 
of  its  Norman  framework,  and  as  they  rambled  out  again,  Forbes 
made  them  pause  over  a window  in  the  northern  aisle — a window  by 
some  Flemish  artist  of  the  fifteenth  century,  who  seems  to  have  em- 
bodied in  it  at  once  all  his  knowledge  and  all  his  dreams.  In  front 
sat  Jonah  under  his  golden-tinted  gourd — an  ill  tempered  Flemish 
peasant — while  behind  him  the  indented  roofs  of  the  Flemish  town 
climbed  the  whole  height  of  the  background.  It  was  probably  the 


48 


MISS  BRETHERTOM. 


artist’s  native  town;  some  roof  among*  those  carefully-outlined 
gables  sheltered  his  own  household  Lares.  But  the  hill  on  which 
the  town  stood,  and  the  mountainous  background  and  the  purple 
sea,  were  the  hills  and  the  sea  not  of  Belgium,  but  of  a dream  coun- 
try— of  Italy,  perhaps,  the  mediaeval  artist’s  paradise. 

“ Happy  man!”  said  Forbes,  turning  to  Miss  Bretherton;  “ look^ 
he  put  it  together  four  centuries  ago,  all  he  knew  and  all  he  dreamed 
of.  And  there  it  is  to  this  day,  and  beyond  the  spirit  of  that  window 
there  is  no  getting.  For  all  our  work,  if  we  do  it  honestly,  is  a com- 
pound of  what  we  know  and  what  we  dream.” 

Miss  Bretherton  looked  at  him  curiously.  It  was  as  though  for 
the  first  time  she  connected  the  man  himself  with  his  reputation  and 
his  pictures,  that  the  great  artist  in  him  was  more  than  a name  to 
her.  She  listened  to  him  sympathetically,  and  looked  at  the  window 
closely,  as  though  trying  to  follow  all  he  had  been  saying.  But  it 
struck  Mrs.  Stuart  that  there  was  often  a bewilderment  in  her  manner 
which  had  been  strange  to  it  on  her  first  entrance  into  London. 
Those  strong  emphatic  ways  Kendal  had  first  noticed  in  her  were- 
less  frequent.  Sometimes  she  struck  Mrs.  Stuart  as  having  the  air 
of  a half-blindfold  person  trying  to  find  her  way  along  strange 
roads. 

They  passed  out  into  the  cool  and  darkness  of  the  cloisters,  and 
through  the  new  buildings,  anil  soon  they  were  in  the  Broad  Walk, 
trees  as  old  as  the  Commonwealth  bending  overhead,  and  in  front 
the  dazzling  green  oi  the  June  meadows,  the  shining  river  in  the 
distance,  and  the  sweep  of  cloud-flecked  blue  arching  in  the  whole. 

The  gentlemen  were  waiting  for  them,  metamorphosed  in  boating- 
clothes,  and  the  two  boats  were  ready.  A knot  of  idlers  and 
lookers-on  watched  the  embarkation,  for  on  Sunday  the  river  is 
forsaken,  and  they  were  the  only  adventurers  on  its  blue  expanse. 
Off  they  pushed,  Miss  Bretherton,  Kendal,  Mr.  Stuart,  and  Forbes  in 
one  boat,  the  remaining  members  of  the  party  in  the  other.  Isabel 
Bretherton  had  thrown  off  the  wrap  which  she  always  carried  with 
her,  and  which  she  had  gathered  round  her  in  the  cathedral,  and  it 
lay  about  her  in  gretm  fur-edged  folds,  bringing  her  white  dress  into 
relief,  the  shapely  fall  of  the  shoulders  and  all  the  round  slimness  of 
her  form.  As  Kendal  took  the  stroke  oar,  after  he  had  arranged 
everything  for  her  comfort,  he  asked  her  if  Oxford  was  what  she 
had  expected. 

“ A thousand  times  better  1”  she  said  eagerly. 

“ You  have  a wonderful  power  of  enjoyment.  One  would  think 
your  London  life  would  have  spoiled  it  a little.” 

“ 1 don’t  think  anything  ever  could.  1 was  always  laughed  at  for 
it  as  a child.  1 enjoy  everything.” 

“ Including  such  a day  as  you  had  yesterday?  How  caw  you  play 
the  4 White  Lady  ’ twice  in  one  day?  It’s  enough  to  wear  you  out.” 

44  Oh,  everybody  does  it.  I was  ’Dound  to  give  a matinee  to  the 
profession,  some  time,  and  yesterday  had  been  fixed  lor  it  for  ages. 
But  I have  only  given  three  matinees  altogether,  and  1 sha’n’t  give 
another  before  mv  time  is  up.” 

44  That’s  a good  hearing,”  said  Kendal.  4‘  Do  you  get  tired  of  the 
4 White  Lady  ’?” 

“Yes,”  she  said  emphatically;  “ 1 am  sick  of  her.  But,”  she 


MISS  BRETHERTOX. 


4$ 

added,  bending:  forward  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knee,  so  that 
what  she  said  could  be  heard  by  Kendal  only,  “ have  you  heard,  I 
wonder,  what  1 have  in  my  head  for  the  autumn?  Oh,  well,  we* 
must  not  talk  ot‘  it  now;  I have  no  right  to  make  it  public  yet.  But 
1 should  like  to  tell  you  when  we  get  to  Nuneham,  if  there’s  an  op- 
portunity.” 

“ We  will  make  one,”  said  Kendal,  with  an  inward  qualm.  And 
she  fell  back  again  with  a nod  and  a smile. 

On  they  passed,  in  the  blazing  sunshine,  through  Iffley  lock  and 
under  the  g$een  hill  crowned  with  Iffley  village  and  its  Xorman 
church.  The  hay  was  out  in  the  fields,  and  the  air  was  full  of  it. 
Children,  in  tidy  Sunday  frocks,  ran  along  the  towing-path  to  look 
at  them;  a reflected  heaven  smiled  upon  them  from  the  river  depths; 
wild  rose-bushes  overhung  the  water,  and  here  and  there  stray 
poplars  rose  like  land  marks  into  the  sky.  The  heat,  after  a time, 
deadened  conversation.  Forbes  every  now  and  then  would  break 
out  with  some  comment  on  the  moving  landscape,  which  showed 
the  delicacy  and  truth  of  his  painter’s  sense,  or  set  the  boat  alive 
with  laughter  by  some  story  of  the  unregenerate  Oxford  of  his  own 
undergraduate  days;  but  there  were  long  stretches  of  silence  when,, 
except  to  the  rowers,  the  world  seemed  asleep,  and  the  regular  fall  of 
the  oars  like  the  pulsing  of  a hot  dream. 

It  was  past  five  before  they  steered  into  the  shadow1  of  the  Nune- 
ham  woods.  The  meadowTs  just  ahead  were  a golden  blaze  of  light, 
but  here  the  shade  lay  deep  and  green  on  the  still  water,  spanned  by 
a rustic  bridge,  and  broken  every  now  and  then  by  the  stately  white- 
ness of  the  swans.  Kicli  steeply-rising  woods  shut  in  the  left-hand 
bank,  and  foliage,  grass,  and  wild  flowers  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
sprung  into  a fuller  luxuriance  than  elsewhere. 

44  It’s  too  early  for  tea,”  said  Mrs.  Stuart’s  clear  little  voice  on  the 
bank;  “ at  least,  if  we  have  it  directly  it  will  leave  such  a long  time 
before  the  train  starts.  Wouldn’t  a stroll  be  pleasant  first?” 

Isabel  Bretherton  and  Kendal  only  waited  for  the  geneial  assent 
before  they  wandered  oft  ahead  of  the  others.  “ I should  like  very 
much  to  have  a word  with  you,”  she  had  said  to  him  as  he  handed 
her  out  of  the  boat.  And  now,  here  they  were,  and,  as  Kendal  felt, 
the  critical  moment  was  come. 

“ 1 only  wanted  to  tell  you,”  she  said,  as  they  paused  in  the  heart 
of  the  wood,  a little  out  of  breath  after  a bit  of  steep  ascent,  44  that 
1 have  got  hold  of  a play  for  next  October  that  1 think  you  are 
rather  specially  interested  in — at  least,  Mr.  Wallace  told  me  you  had 
heard  it  all,  and  given  him  advice  about  it  while  he  was  writing  it. 

1 want  so  much  to  hear  your  ideas  about  it.  It  always  seems  to  me 
that  you  have  thought  more  about  the  stage  and  seen  more  acting 
than  any  one  else  1 know,  and  1 care  for  your  opinion  very  much 
indeed — do  tell  me,  if  you  will,  what  you  thought  of  4 Elvira!’  ” 

44  Well,”  said  Kendal  quietly,  as  he  made  her  give  up  her  wrap  ta 
him  to  carry,  “ there  is  a great  deal  that’s  fine  in  it.  The  original 
sketch,  as  tiie  Italian  author  left  it,  was  good,  and  Wallace  has  enor- 
mously improved  upon  it.  Only — ” 

44  Isn’t  it  most  dramatic?”  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  him; 

44  there  are  so  many  strong  situations  in  it,  and  though  one  might 
think  the  subject  a little  unpleasant  if  one  only  heard  it  described. 


50 


MISS  BRETIIERTON. 


yet  there  is  nothing  in  the  treatment  but  what  is  noble  and  tragic.  I 
have  very  seldom  felt  so  stirred  by  anything.  1 find  myself  plan- 
ning the  scenes,  thinking  orer  them  this  way  and  that  incessantly.” 

“ It  is  very  good  and  friendly  of  you,”  said  Kendal,  warmly,  “ to 
wish  me  to  give  you  advice  about  it.  Do  you  really  want  me  to 
speak  my  lull  mind?” 

“ Of  course  1 do,”  she  said  eagerly;  44  of  course  I do.  I think 
there  are  one  or  two  points  in  it  that  might  be  changed.  I shall 
press  Mr.  Wallace  to  make  a few  alterations.  I wonder  what  were 
the  changes  that  occurred  to  you?”  # 

“ I wasn’t  thinking  of  changes,”  said  Kendal,  not  venturing  to 
look  at  her  as  she  walked  beside  him,  her  white  dress  trailing  over 
the  moss-grown  path,  and  her  large  hat  falling  back  from  the  brill- 
iant flushed  cheeks  and  queenly  throat.  ”1  was  thinking  of  the 
play  itself,  of  how  the  part  would  really  suit  you.” 

“ Oh,  1 have  no  doubts  at  all  about  that,”  she  said,  but  with  a 
quick  look  at  him;  “ 1 always  feel  at  once  when  a part  will  suit  me, 
and  I have  fallen  in  love  with  this  one.  It  is  tragic  and  passionate, 
like  the  4 White  Lady/  but  it  is  quite  a different  phase  of  passion.  1 
am  tired  of  scolding  and  declaiming.  4 Elvira  ’ will  give  me  an 
opportunity  of  showing  what  I can  do  with  something  soft  and 
pathetic.  I have  had  such  difficulties  in  deciding  upon  a play  to 
begin  my  October  season  with,  and  now  this  seems  to  me  exactly  ^ 
what  1 want.  People  prefer  me  always  in  something  poetical  and  * 
romantic,  and  this  is  new,  and  the  mounting  of  it  might  be  quite 
original.” 

“ And  yet  1 doubt,”  said  Kendal;  44  I think  the  part  of  Elvira 
wants  variety,  and  would  it  not  be  well  for  you  to  have  more  of  a 
change?  Something  with  more  relief  in  it,  something  which  would  ^ 
give  your  lighter  vein,  which  comes  in  so  well  in  the  ‘ White  Lady/ 
more  chance?” 

She  frowned  a little,  and  shook  her  head.  44  My  turn  is  not  that 
way.  I can  play  a comedy  part,  of  course — every  actor  ought  to  be 
able  to— but  1 don’t  feel  at  home  in  it,  and  it  never  gives  me  pleas-  ' 
ure  to  act.” 

“ 1 don’t  mean  a pure  light-comedy  part,  naturally,  but  something 
which  would  be  less  of  a continuous  tragic  strain  than  this.  Why, 
almost  all  the  modern  tragic  plays  have  their  passages  of  relief,  but  ~ 
the  texture  of  4 Elvira  ’ is  so  much  the  same  throughout — 1 cannot 
conceive  a greater  demand  on  any  one.  And  then  you  must  consider 
your  company.  Frankly,  I cannot  imagine  a part  less  suited  to  Mr. 
Hawes  than  Macias;  and  his  difficulties  would  react  on  you.” 

44 1 can  choose  whom  I like,”  she  said  abruptly;  44 1 am  not  bound  ~ 
to  Mr.  Hawes.” 

“Beside,”  he  said,  cautiously,  changing  his  ground  a little,  44 1 
should  have  said — only,  of  course  you  must  know  much  better — * 
that  it  is  a little  risky  to  give  the  British  public  such  very  serious 
fare  as  this,  and  immediately  after  the  4 White  Lady.’  The  English 
theater-goer  never  seems  to  me  to  take  kindly  to  mediae valism—  kings 
and  knights  and  nobles  and  the  fifteenth  century  are  very  likely  to 
bore  him.  Not  that  I mean  to  imply  for  a moment  that  the  play 
would  be  a failure  in  point  of  popularity.  You  have  got  such  a 
hold  that  you  could  carry  anything  through;  but  1 am  inclined  to 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


51 


think  that  in  ' Elvira  ’ you  would  be  rather  fighting  against  wind 
and  tide,  and  that,  as  1 said  betore,  it  would  be  a great  strain  upon 
you. 

“ The  public  makes  no  objection  to  Madame  Desiorgts  in  Victor 
Hugo,”  she  answered  quickly,  even  sharply.  “Her  parts,  so  far 
as  1 know  anything  about  them,  are  just  these  romantic  parts,  and 
she  has  made  her  enormous  reputation  out  of  them.” 

Kendal  hesitated.  “ The  French  have  a great  tradition  of  them,” 
he  said.  “ Racine,  after  all,  was  a preparation  for  Victor  Hugo/’ 

“ Ko,  no!”  she  exclaimed,  w7ith  sudden  bitterness  and  a change  of 
voice  which  startled  him;  “ it  is  not  that.  It  is  that  1 am  1,  and 
Madame  Destor^ts  is  Madame  Desfor^ts.  Oh,  I see!  i see  very  well 
that  your  mind  is  against  it.  And  Mr.  Wallace — there  were  two  or 
three  things  in  his  manner  which  have  puzzled  mfe.  He  has  never 
said  yes  to  my  proposal  formally.  I understand,  perfectly  what  it 
means;  you  think  that  1 shall  do  the  play  an  injury  by  acting  it; 
that  it  is  too  good  for  me!” 

Kendal  knelt  as  if  a thunderbolt  had  fallen;  the  somber  passion 
of  her  manner  affected  him  indescribably. 

“ Miss  Bretherton!”  he  cried. 

“ Yes,  yes!”  she  said,  almost  fiercely,  stopping  in  the  path.  “ ltrs 
that,  1 know.  1 have  felt  it  almost  since  your  first  word.  What 
power  have  1,  if  not  tragic  power?  If  a part  like  Elvira  does  not 
suit  me,  what  does  suit  me?  Of  course,  that  is  what  you  mean.  If 
1 can  not  act  Elvira,  lam  good  for  nothing — I am  worse  than  good 
for  nothing— I am  an  importor,  a sham!” 

She  sat  down  on  the  raised  edge  of  the  bank,  for  she  was  trem- 
bling, and  clasped  her  quivering  hands  on  her  knees.  Kendal  was 
beside  himself  with  distress.  How  had  he  blundered  so,  and  what 
had  brought  this  about?  It  was  so  unexpected,  it  was  incredible. 

“ Do — do  believe  me!”  he  exclaimed,  bending  over  her.  “ I 
never  meant  anything  the  least  disrespectful  to  you;  1 never  dreamed 
of  it.  You  asked  me  to  give  you  my  true  opinion,  and  my  criticism 
applied  much  more  to  the  play  than  to  yourself.  Think  nothing  of 
it,  if  you  yourself  are  persuaded.  You  must  know  much  better 
than  1 can  what  will  suit  you.  And  as  foi  Wallace— Wallace  will 
be  proud  to  let  you  do  what  you  will  with  his  play.” 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  would  have  said  anything  in  the  world 
to  soothe  her.  It  was  so  piteous,  so  intolerable  to  him  to  watch  that 
quivering  lip. 

“ Ah,  yes,”  she  said,  looking  up,  a dreary  smile  flitting  over  her 
face,  “ 1 know  you  didn’t  mean  to  wound  me;  but  it  was  there, 
your  feeling;  1 saw  it  at  once.  I might  have  seen  it,  if  1 hadn’t 
been  a fool,  in  Mr.  Wallace’s  manner.  ^ I did  see  it.  It’s  only  what 
every  one  whose  opinion  is  worth  having  is  beginning  to  say.  My 
acting  has  been  a nightmare  to  me  lately.  1 believe  it  has  all  been 
a great,  great  mistake.” 

Kendal  never  felt  a keener  hatred  of  the  conventions  wThich  rule 
the  relations  between  men  and  women.  Could  he  only  simply  have 
expressed  his  own  feeling,  he  would  have  knelt  beside  her  on  the 
path,  have  taken  the  trembling  hands  in  his  own,  and  comforted 
her  as  a woman  would  have  done.  But  as  it  was,  he  could  only 
stand  stiff  and  awkward  before  her,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 


52 


MISS  BKETHERTOlSr. 


the  whole  world  had  resolved  itself  into  his  own  individuality  and 
hers,  and  as  if  the  gay  river  party  and  the  bright  friendly  relations 
of  an  hour  before  were  separated  from  the  present  by  an  impassable 
gulf.  And,  worst  of  all,  there  seemed  to  be  a strange  perversity  in 
his  speech— a fate  which  drove  him  into  betraying  every  here  and 
there  his  own  real  standpoint  whether  he  would  or  no. 

“ tfou  must  not  say  such  things/’  he  said,  as  calmly  as  he  could. 
44  You  have  charmed  the  English  public  as  no  one  else  has  ever 
charmed  it.  Is  not  that  a great  thing  to  have  done?  And  if  1,  who 
am  very  fastidious  and  very  captious,  and  over-critical  in  a hundred 
ways — if  I am  inclined  to  think  that  a part  is  rather  more  than  you, 
wifh  your  short  dramatic  experience,  can  compass  quite  success- 
fully, why,  what  does  it  matter?  1 may  be  quite  wrong.  Don’t 
take  any  notice  of  my  opinion:  forget  it,  and  let  me  help  you,  if  I 
can,  by  talking  over  the  play.” 

She  shook  her  head  with  a bitter  little  smile.  44  No,  no;  1 shall 
never  forget  it.  Your  attitude  only  brought  home  to  me,  almost 
more  strongly  than  1 could  bear,  what  I have  suspected  a long,  long 
time— the  contempt  which  people  like  you  and  Mr.  Wallace  feel  tor 
me!” 

44  Contempt!”  cried  Kendal,  beside  himself,  and  feeling  as  if  all 
the  criticisms  he  had  allowed  himself  to  make  of  her-were  recoiling 
in  one  avenging  mass  upon  his  head.  44 1 never  felt  anything  but 
the  warmest  admiration  for  your  courage,  your  work,  your  woman- 
ly goodness  and  sweetness.” 

“Yes,”  she  said,  rising  and  holding  out  her  hand  half-uncon- 
sciously  for  her  cloak,  which  she  put  round  her  as  though  the  wood 
had  suddenly  grown  cold;  44  admiration  for  me  as  a woman,  con- 
tempt for  me  as  an  artist!  There’s  the  whole  bare  truth.  Does  it 
hold  my  future  in  it,  I wonder?  Is  there  nothing  in  me  but  this 
beauty  that  people  talk  of,  and  which  1 sometimes  hate ?” 

She  swept  her  hair  back  from  her  forehead  with  *i  fierce  dramatic 
gesture.  It  was  as  though  the  self  in  her  was  rising  up  and  assert- 
ing itself  against  the  judgment  which  had  been  passed  upon  it,  as  if 
some  hidden  force  hardly  suspected  even  by  herself  were  beating 
against  its  bars.  Kendal  watched  her  in  helpless  silence.  44  Tell 
me,”  she  said,  fixing  her  deep  hazel  eyes  upon  him,  14  you  owe  it 
me — you  have  given  me  so  much  pain.  No,  no;  you  did  not  mean 
it.  But  tell  me,  and  tell  me  from  the  bottom  of  your  heart — that  is,  - 
it  you  are  interested  enough  in  me — what  is  it  I want?  What  is  it 
that  seems  to  be  threatening  me  with  failure  as  an  artist?  1 work 
all  day  long,  my  work  is  never  out  of  my  head;  it  seems  to  pursue 
me  all  night.  But  the  more  I struggle  with  it  the  less  successful  I 
seem  even  to  myself.” 

Her  look  was  haunting;  there  was  despair  and  there  was  hope  in 
it.  It  implied  that  she  had  set  him  up  in  her  impulsive  way  as  a 
sort  of  oracle  who  albne  could  help  her  out  of  her  difficulty.  In 
presence  of  that  look  his  own  conventionality  fell  away  from  him, 
and  he  spoke  the  plain,  direct  truth  to  her. 

44  What  you  want,”  he  said  slowly,  as  if  the  words  were  forced 
from  him,  44  is  knowledge!  London  has  taught  you  much,  and  that 
is  why  you  are  dissatisfied  with  your  work — it  is  the  beginning  of 
all  real  success.  But  you  want  positive  knowledge— the  knowledge 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


53 


you  could  get  from  books,  and  the  knowledge  other  people  could 
teach  you.  You  want  a true  sense  of  what  has  been  done  and  what 
can  be  done  with  your  art,  and  you  want  an  insight  into  the  world 
of  ideas  lying  round  it  and  about  it.  You  are  very  young,  and  you 
have  had  to  train  yourself.  But  every  human  art  nowadays  is  so 
complicated  that  none  ot  us  can  get  on  without  using  the  great 
stores  ot  experience  others  have  laid  up  for  us.  ” 

it  was  all  out  now.  lie  had  spoken  his  inmost  mind.  They  had 
stopped  again,  and  she  was  looking  at  him  intently;  it  struck  him 
that  he  could  not  possibly  have  said  what  he  had  been  saying  unless 
he  had  been  led  on  by  an  instinctive  dependence  upon  a great  mag- 
nanimity of  nature  in  her.  And  then  the  next  moment  the  strange 
opposites  the  ma  ter  held  in  it  Bashed  across  him.  He  saw  the 
crowded  theater,  the  white  figure  on  the  stage,  his  ear  seemed  to  be 
full  of  the  c.'amor  of  praise  with  which  London  had  been  over- 
whelming its  favorite.  It  was  to  this  spoiled  child  ot  fortune  that 
he  had  been  playing  the  schoolmaster — he,  one  captious  man  ot 
letters,  against  the  world. 

But  she  had  not  a thought  of  the  kind,  or  rather,  the  situation  pre- 
sented itself  to  her  in  exactly  the  contrary  light.  To  her  Kendal’s 
words,  instead  ot  being  those  of  a single  critic,  were  the  voice  and 
the  embodiment  of  a hundred  converging  impressions  and  sensa- 
tions, and  she  felt  a relief  in  having  analyzed  to  the  full  tlie  vague 
trouble  which  had  been  settling  upon  her  by  this  unraveling  ot  her 
own  feelings  and  his. 

“I  am  very  grateful  to  you,”  she  said  steadily;  “ ver}r.  It  is 
strange,  but  almost  when  I first  saw  you  1 felt  that  there  was 
something  ominous  in  you  to  me.  My  dream,  in  whch  I have  been 
living,  has  never  been  so  perfect  since,  and  now  1 think  it  has  gone. 
Don't  look  so  grieved,”  she  cried,  inexpressibly  touched  by  his  face, 
” I am  glad  you  told  me  all  you  thougnt.  It  will  be  a help  to  me. 
And  as  for  poor  Elvira,”  she  added,  trying  to  smile  for  all  her 
extreme  paleness,  ‘‘.tell  Mr.  Wallace  1 give  her  up.  1 am- not 
vexed,  1 am  not  angry.  Don't  you  think  now  we  had  better  go 
back  to  Mrs.  Stuart?  1 should  like  a rest  with  her  before  we  all 
meet  again.” 

She  moved  forward  as  she  spoke,  and  it  seemed  to  Kendal  that 
her  step  was  unsteady  and  ihat  she  was  deadly  white.  He  planted 
himself  before  her  in  the  descending  path,  and  held  out  a hand  to 
her  to  help  her.  She  gave  him  her  own,  and  he  carried  it  im- 
petuously to  his  lips. 

” You  are  nobleness  itself!”  he  cried,  from  the  depths  of  his 
heart.  “ 1 feel  as  if  I had  been  the  merest  pedant  blunderer— the 
most  incapable,  clumsy  idiot.” 

She  smiled,  but  she  could  not  answer.  And  in  a few  more  mo- 
ments voices  and  steps  could  be  heard  approaching,  and  the  scene 
was  over. 


CHAPTER  Ml. 

The  Sunday  party  separated  at  Paddington  on  the  night  of  the 
Nuneham  expedition,  and  Wallace  and  Eustace  Kendal  walked  east- 
ward together.  The  journey  home  had  been  very  quiet.  Miss  Brether- 


54 


MISS  BRETHERTOM* 


ton  had  been  forced  to  declare  herself  “ extremely  tired,”  and  Mrs, 
Stuart’s  anxiety  and  sense  of  responsibility  about  her  had  commu- 
nicated themselves  to  the  rest  of  the  party. 

“ It  is  the  effect  of  my  long  day  yesterday/’  she  said  apologetically 
to  Forbes,  who  hovered" about  her  with  those  affectionate  attentions 
which  a man  on  the  verge  of  old  age  pays  with  freedom  to  a young 
girl.  “ It  won’t  do  to  iet  the  public  see  so  much  of  me  in  future. 
But  1 don’t  want  to  spoil  our  Sunday.  Talk  to  me,  and  1 shall 
forget  it.” 

Wallace,  who  had  had  his  eyes  about  him  when  she  and  Eustace 
Kendal  emerged  from  the  wood  in  view  of  the  rest  of  the  party,  was 
restless  and  ill  at  ease,  but  there  was  no  getting  any  information, 
even  by  gesture,  from  Kendal,  who  sat  in  his  corner  diligently 
watching  the  moonlight  on  the  flying  fields,  or  making  every  now 
and  then  some  disjointed  attempts  at  conversation  with  Mrs.  Stuart. 

At  the  station  Miss  Bretherton’s  carriage  was  waiting;  the  party 
of  gentlemen  saw  her  and  Mrs.  Stuart,  who  insisted  on  taking  her 
home,  into  it;  the  pale,  smiling  face  bent  forward;  she  waved  her 
hand  in  response  to  the  lifted  hats,  and  she  was  gone. 

“Well?”  said  Wallace,  with  a world  of  inquiry  in  his  voice,  as 
he  and  Kendal  turned  eastward. 

“It  has  been  an  unfortunate  business,”  said  Kendal  abruptly, 
“ I never  did  a thing  worse,  I think,  or  spent  a more  painful  half- 
hour.” 

Wallace’s  face  fell.  “1  wish  1 hadn’t  bored  you  with  my  con- 
founded affairs,”  he  exclaimed.  “ It  was  too  bad!” 

Kendal  was  inclined  to  agree  inwardly,  for  he  was  in  a state  of 
irritable  reaction ; but  he  had  the  justice  to  add  aloud,  “ It  was  I 
who  was  the  fool  to  undertake  it.  And  I think,  indeed,  it  could 
have  been  done,  but  that  circumstances,  which  neither  you  nor  I 
had  weighed  sufficiently,  were  against  it.  She  is  in  a nervous, 
shaken  slate,  mentally  and  physically,  and  before  1 had  had  time  to 
discuss  the  point  at  all  she  had  carried  it  on  to  the  personal  ground, 
and  the  thing  was  up.” 

“ She  is  deeply  offended,  then?” 

“ Not  at  all,  in  the  ordinary  sense;  she  is  too  fine  a creature;  but 
she  talked  of  the  * contempt  ’ that  you  and  1 feel  for  her!” 

“ Good  heavens!”  cried  Wallace,  feeling  most  unjustly  persuaded 
that  his  friend  had  bungled  the  matter  horribly. 

“Yes,”  said  Kendal^  deliberately;  “ ‘ contempt,’ that  was  it.  I 
don’t  know  how  it  came  about.  All  I know  is,  that  what  1 said, 
which  seemed  to  me  very  harmless,  was  like  a match  to  a mine.  Bui 
she  told  me  to  tell  you  that  she  made  no  further  claim  on  Elvira.” 
So  the  play  is  safe.” 

“ D — the  play!”  cried  Wallace  vigorously,  a sentiment  to  which 
perhaps  Kendal's  silence  gave  consent.  “But  1 can  not  let  it  rest 
there.  I must  write  to  her.” 

“ I don’t  think  1 would,  if  1 were  you,”  said  Kendal.  ” 1 should 
let  it  alone.  She  looks  upon  the  matter  as  finished.  She  told  me 
particularly  to  tell  you  that  she  was  not  vexed,  and  you  may  be  quite 
sure  that  she  isn’t,  in  any  vulgar  sense.  Perhaps  that  makes  it  all 
the  worse.  However,  you’ve  a right  to  know  what  happened,  so  I’ll 
tell  you  as  far  as  1 remember.” 


MISS  BRETHERTGN. 


55 


He  gave  an  abridged  account  ot  the  conversation,  which  made 
matters  a little  clearer,  though  by  no  means  less  uncomfortable,  to 
Wallace.  When  it  was  over,  they  were  nearing  Vigo  Street,  the 
point  at  which  tlieii  routes  diverged,  Wallace  having  rooms  in  the 
Albany,  and  Kendal  hailed  a hansom. 

“ If  1 were  you,”  he  said,  as  it  came  up,  “ 1 should,  as  1 said  be- 
fore, let  the  thing  alone  as  much  as  possible.  She  will  probably 
speak  to  you  about  it,  and  you  will,  of  course,  say  what  you  like, 
but  I’m  pretty  sure  she  won’t  take  up  the  play  again,  and  if  she  feels 
a coolness  toward  anybody,  it  won’t  be  toward  you.” 

“ There’s  small  consolation  in  that!”  exclaimed  Wallace. 

14  Anyhow,  make  the  best  of  it,  my  dear  fellow,”  said  Kendal,  as 
though  determined  to  strike  a lighter  key.  “Don’t  be  so  dismal, 
things  will  look  differently  to-morrow  morning— they  generally  do 
—there’s  no  tremendous  harm  done.  I’m  sorry  I didn’t  do  your  bid- 
ding better.  Honestly,  when  1 come  to  think  over  it,  I don’t  see 
how  I could  have  done  otherwise.  But  1 don’t  expect  you  to 
think  so.” 

Wallace  laughed,  protested,  and  they  parted. 

A few  moments  later  Kendal  let  himself  into  his  rooms,  where 
lights  were  burning,  and  threw  himself  into  his  reading-chair,  be- 
side which  his  books  and  papers  stood  ready  to  his  hand.  Generally 
nothing  gave  him  a greater  sense  of  bien-etre  than  this  nightly  re- 
turn, after  a day  spent  in  society,  to  these  silent  and  faithful  com- 
panions of  his  life.  He  was  accustomed  to  feel  the  atmosphere  of 
his  room  when  he  came  back  to  it  charged  with  welcome.  It  was 
as  though  the  thoughts  and  schemes  he  had  left  warm  and  safe  in 
shelter  there  started  to  life  again  after  a day’s  torpor,  and  thronged 
to  meet  him.  His  books  smiled  at  him  with  friendly  faces,  the  open 
page  called  to  him  to  resume  the  work  of  the  morning — he  was,  in 
every  sense,  at  home.  To-night,  however,  the  familiar  spell  seemed 
to  have  lost  its  force.  After  a hasty  supper  he  took  up  some  proofs, 
pen  in  hand.  But  the  first  page  was  hardly  turned  before  they  had 
dropped  on  to  his  knee.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  still  felt  on  his 
arm  the  folds  of  a green,  fur-edged  cloak,  as  if  the  touch  of  a soft 
cold  hand  were  still  lingering  in  his.  Presently  he  fell  to  recalling 
every  detajl  of  the  afternoon  scene— the  arching  beech  trees,  the 
rich  red  and  brown  of  the  earth  beneath,  tinged  with  the  winter 
sheddings  of  the  trees,  the  little  raised  bank,  her  eyes  as  she  looked  ** 
up  at  him,  the  soft  wisps  of  her  golden  brown  hair  under  her  hat. 
What  superb,  unapproachable  beauty  it  was!  how  living,  how  rich 
„ in  content  and  expression!” 

“Am  I in  love  with  Isabel*  Bretherton?”  he  asked  himself  at 
last,  lying  back  on  his  chair  with  his  eyes  on  the  portrait  of  his  sis- 
ter. “ Perhaps  Marie  could  tell  me— I don’t  understand  myself.  I - 
don’t  think  so.  And  if  1 were,  1 am  not  a youngster,  and  my  life  is 
a,  tolerably  full  one.  1 could  hold  myself  in  and  trample  it  down  if 
it  were  best  to  do  so.  1 can  hardly  imagine  myself  absorbed  in  a 
great  passion.  My  bachelor  life  is  a good  many  years  old — my 
habits  won’t  break  up  easily.  And,  supposing  1 felt  the  beginnings 
of  it,  I could  stop  it  if  reason  were  against  it.” 

He  left  his  chair,  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room,  think- 
ing. “ And  there  is  absolutely  no  sort  of  reason  in  my  letting  myself 


56 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


fall  in  love  with  Isabel  Brelkerton!  She  has  never  given  me  the 
smallest  right  to  think  that  she  taaes  any  more  interest  in  me  than 
she  does  in  hundreds  ot  people  whom  she  meets  on  friendly  terms, 
unless  it  may  be  an  intellectual  interest,  as  Wallace  imagines,  and 
that’s  a poor  sort  of  stepping-stone  to  love!  And  if  it  were  ever 
possible  that  she  should,  this  afternoon  has  taken  away  the  possibili- 
ty. For,  however  magnanimous  a woman  may  be,  a thing  like  that 
rankles;  it  can't  help  it.  She  will  feel  the  sting  of  it  wrorse  to-mor- 
row than  to-day,  and,  though  she  will  tell  herself  that  she  bears  no 
grudge,  it  will  leave  a gulf  between  us.  For,  of  course,  she  musfi 
go  on  acting,  and,  whatever  depressions  she  may  have,  she  must  be- 
lieve in  herself;  no  one  can  go  on  working  without  it,  and  1 shalL 
always  recall  to  her  something  harsh  and  humiliating! 

“ Supposing,  by  any  chance,  it  were  not  so— supposing  1 were 
able  to  gatker~up  my  relation  with  her  again  and  make  it  a really 
friendly  one—]  should  take,  1 think,  a very  definite  line;  1 should 
make  up  my  mind  to  be  of  use  to  her.  After  all,  it  is  true  what  she 
says:  there  are  many  things  in  me  that  might  be  helpful  to  her,  and 
everything  there  was  she  should  have  the  benefit  of.  1 would  make 
a serious  purpose  of  it.  She  should  find  me  a friend  worth  Raving.'* 

His  thoughts  wandered  on  a while  in  this  direction.  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  see  himself  in  the  future  as  Miss  Bretkerton’s  philosopher 
and  friend,  but  in  the  end  the  sense  of  reality  gained  upon  his 
dreams,  “lama  fool!”  he  said  to  himself  resolutely  at  last,  “ and 
1 may  as  well  go  to  bed  and  put  her  out  ot  my  mind.  The  chance  is 
over — gone — done  with,  if  it  ever  existed.” 

The  next  morning,  on  coming  down  to  breakfast,  he  saw  among 
his  letters  a handwriting  which  startled  him.  Where  had  he  seen  it 
before?  In  Wallace’s  hand  three  days  ago?  He  opened  it,  and  found 
the  following  note: 

“ My  dear  Mr.  Kendal, — You  know,  1 think,  that  I am  oil  next 
week— on  Monday,  if  all  goes  well.  We  go  to  Switzerland  for  a 
while,  and  then  to  Venice,  which  people  tell  me  is  often  very  pleas- 
ant in  August.  A\e  shall  be  there  by  the  first  ot  August,  and  Mr. 
Wallace  tells  me  he  hears  from  you  that  your  sister,  Madame  de 
Ck&teauvieux,  will  be  there  about  the  same  time.  I forgot  to  ask 
you  yesterday,  but,  if  you  think  she  would  not  object  to  it,  would 
you  give  me  a little  note  introducing  me  to  her?  All  that  I have 
heard  of  her  makes  me  very  anxious  to  know  her,  and  she  would 
not  find  me  a troublesome  person!  We  shall  hardly,  I suppose, 
meet  again  before  1 start.  If  not,  please  remember  that  my  friends 
can  always  find  me  on  Sunday,  afternoon. 

“ Tours  very  truly,  Isabel  Bretherton.” 

Kendal’s  hand  closed  tightly  over  the  note.  Then  he  put  it  caie- 
fully  back  into  its  envelope,  and  walked  away  with  his  hands  be- 
hind him  and  the  note  in  them,  to  stare  out  of  window  at  the  red 
roots  opposite. 

“ That  is  like  her,”  he  murmured  to  himself;  “I  wound  and 
hurt  her:  she  guesses  i shall  suffer  for  it,  and,  by  way  ot  setting 
up  the  friendly  bond  again,  next  day,  without  a word,  she  asks  me 


MISS  BRETHERTON.  57 

fo  do  her  a kindness  I Could  anything  be  more  delicate,  more  gra- 
cious!” 

Kendal  never  had  greater  difficulty  in  fixing  his  thoughts  to  his 
wort*  than  that  morning,  and  at  last,  in  despair,  he  pushed  his  book 
aside,  and  wrote  an  answer  to  Miss  Bretherton,  and,  when  that  was 
accomplished,  a long  letter  to  his  sister.  The  first  took  him  longer 
than  its  brevity  seemed  to  justify.  It  contained  no  reference  to  any- 
thing but  her  request.  lie  felt  a compulsion  upon  him  to  treat  tiie 
situation  exactly  as  she  had  done,  but,  given  this  limitation,  how 
much  cordiality  angi  respect  could  two  sides  of  letter-paper  be  made 
to  carry  with  due  regard  to  decorum  and  grammar? 

When  he  next  met  Wallace,  that  hopeful,  bright-tempered  person 
had  entirely  recovered  his  cheerfulness.  Miss  Bretherton,  he  re- 
ported, had  attacked  the  subject  of  Elvira  with  him,  bat  so 
lightly  that  he  had  no  opportunity  for  saying  any  of  the  skillful 
things  he  had  prepared. 

“She  evidently  did  not  want  the  question  seriously  opened,”  he 
said,  ‘‘  so  I followed  your  advice  and  lei  it  alone,  and  since  then  she 
has  been  charming  both  to  Agnes  and  me.  1 feel  myself  as  much  of 
a brute  as  ever,  but  I see  that  the  only  thing  1 can  do  is  to  hold  my 
tongue  about  it.”  To  which  Kendal  heartily  agreed. 

A few  days  afterward  the  newspapers  gave  a prominent  place  to 
reports  of  Miss  Brethei  ton's  farewell  performance.  It  had  been  a 
great  social  event.  Half  the  distinguished  people  in  London  were 
present,  lefl  by  royalty.  London,  in  fact,  could  hardly  bear  to  part 
with  its  favorite,  and  compliments,  flowers,  and  farewells  showered 
upon  her.  Kendal,  who  had  not  meant  to  go  at  the  time  when  tick- 
ets were  to  be  had,  tried  about  the  middle  of  the  week  after  the  Ox- 
ford Sunday  to  get  a seat,  but  found  it  utterly  impossible.  He 
might  have  managed  it  by  applying  to  her  through  Edward  Wal- 
lace, but  that  he  was  unwilling  to  do,  for  various  reasons.  He  told 
himself  that,  after  all,  it  was  better  to  let  her  little  note  and  his  an- 
swer close  his  relations  with  her  for  the  present.  Everywhere  else 
but  in  the  theater  she  might  still  regard  him  as  her  friend;  but  there 
they  could  not  but  be  antagonistic  in  some  degree  one  to  another,  and 
not  even  intellectually  did  Kendal  wish  just  now  to  meet  her  on  a 
footing  of  antagonism. 

So,  when  Saturday  night  came,  he  passed  the  hours  of  Miss 
Brefherton’s  triumph  at  a ministerial  evening  party,  where  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  air  was  full  of  her  name,  and  that  half  the  guests 
were  there  as  a pis-aller , because  the  Calliope  could  not  receiveThem. 
And  yet  he  thought  he  noticed  in  the  common  talk  about  her  that 
criticism  of  her  as  an  actress  was  a good  deal  more  general  than  it 
had  been  at  the  beginning  of  the  season.  The  little  knot  of  persons 
with  an  opinion  and  reasons  tor  it  had  gradually  influenced  the 
larger  public.  Nevertheless,  there  was  no  abatement  whatever  of 
the  popular  desire  to  see  her,  whether  on  the  stage  or  in  society.  The 
■engouement  for  her  personally,  for  her  beauty,  and  her  fresh  pure 
womanliness,  showed  no  signs  of  yielding,  and  would  hold  out, 
Kendal  thought,  for  some  time,  against  a much  stronger  current  of 
depreciation  on  the  intellectual  side  than  had  as  yet  set  in. 

He  laid  down  the  Monday  paper  with  a smile  of  self  scorn  and 
muttered:  “ 1 should  like  to  know  how  much  she  remembers  by  this 


58 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


time  of  tlie  prig  wlio  lectured  to  Iter  in  Nuneham  woods  a Week 
ago l’1  In  the  evening  his  “ PaJl  Mall  Gazette  ” told  him  that  Mis3 
Bretherton  had  crossed  the  channel  that  morning,  en  route  for  Paris 
and  Venice.  He  fell  to  calculating  the  weeks  which  must  elapse 
before  his  sister  would  be  in  Venice,  and  before  he  could  hear  of  any 
meeting  between  her  and  the  Bretherton  party,  and  wonnd  up  his 
calculations  b}^  deciding  that  London  was  already  hot  and  would 
soon  be  empty,  and  that,  as  soon  as  he  could  gather  together  certain 
books  he  was  in  want  of,  he  would  carry  them  and  his  proofs  down 
into  Surrey,  refuse  all  invitations  to  country  Rouses,  and  devote 
himself  to  his  work. 

Before  he  left  he  paid  a farewell  call  to  Mrs.  Stuart,  who  gave 
him  full  and  enthusiastic  accounts  of  Isabel  Bretherton’s  last  nighty 
and  informed  him  that  her  brother  talked  of  following  the  Brether- 
tons  to  Venice  some  time  in  August. 

“ Albert/’  she  said,  speaking  of  her  husband,  “ declares  that  he 
can  not  get  away  for  more  than  three  weeks,  and  that  he  must  have 
some  walking;  so  that,  what  we  propose  at  piesent  is  to  pickup  Ed- 
ward at  Venice  at  the  end  of  August,  and  move  up  all  together  into 
the  mountains  afterward.  Oh,  Mr.  Kendal/’  she  went  on  a little 
nervously,  as  if  not  quite  knowing  whether  to  attack  the  subject  or 
not,  “ it  was  devoted  of  you  to  throw  yourself  into  the  breach  for 
Edward  as  you  did  at  Oxford.  1 am  afraid  it  must  have  been  very 
disagreeable,  both  to  you  and  to  her.  When  Edw-ard  told  me  of  it 
next  morning  it  made  me  cold  to  think  of  it.  1 made  up  my  mind 
that  our  friendship— yours  and  ours — with  her  was  over.  But  do 
you  know  she  came  to  call  on  me  that  very  afternoon— how  she 
made  time  1 don’t  know— but  she  did.  Naturally,  I was  very  uncom- 
fortable, but  she  began  to  talk  of  it  in  the  calmest  wray  while  we  were 
having  tea.  ‘Mr.  Kendal  was  probably  quite  right,’  she  said,  ‘in 
thinking  the  part  unsuited  to  me;  anyhow,  1 asked  him  for  his  opin- 
ion, and  1 should  be  a poor  creature  to  mind  his  giving  it.’  And 
then  she  laughed  and  said  that  1 mast  ask  Edward  to  keep  his  eyes 
open  for  anything  that  would  do  better  for  her  in  the  autumn.  And 
since  then  she  has  behaved  as  if  she  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  I 
never  knew  any  one  with  less  smallness  about  her.” 

‘‘  No;  she  is  a fine  creature,”  said  E^endal,  almost  mechanically. 
How  little  Mrs.  Stuart  Knew— or  rather,  how  entirely  remote  she  was 
from  feeling— what  had  happened!  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  emo- 
tion of  that  scene  was  still  thrilling  through  all  his  pulses,  yet  to 
what  ordinary  little  proportions  had  it  been  reduced  in  Mrs.  Stuart’s 
mind!  He  alone  had  seen  the  veil  lifted,  had  come  close  to  the  ener- 
getic reality  of  the  girl’s  nature.  That  Isabel  Bretherton  could  feel 
so,  could  look  so,  was  known  only  to  him— the  thought  had  pain  in 
it,  but  the  keenest  pleasure  also. 

**  Do  you  know/’  said  Mrs.  Stuart  presently,  with  a touch  of  re- 
proach in  her  voice,  “ that  she  asked  for  you  on  the  last  night?” 

“Did  she?” 

“ Y es.  We  had  just  gone  on  to  the  stage  to  see  her  after  the  curtain 
had  fallen.  It  was  such  a pretty  sight,  you-  ought  not  to  have 
missed  it.  The  Prince  had  come  to  say  good-b}r  to  her,  and,  as  we 
came  in,  she  was  just  turning  away  in  her  long  phantom  dress  with 
the  white  hood  failing  round  her  head,  like  that  Romney  picture— 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


59 


don't  you  remember?— of  Lady  Hamilton — Mr.  Forbes  has  drawn 
lier  in  it  two  or  three  times.  The  stage  was  full  of  people.  Mr. 
Forbes  was  there,  of  course,  and  Edward,  and  ourselves,  and  pres- 
ently 1 heard  her  say  to  Edward,  ‘ Is  Mr.  Kendal  here?  1 did  not 
see  him  in  the  house.’  Edward  said  something  about  your  not  hav- 
ing been  able  to  get  a seat,  which  I thought  clumsy  of  him,  for,  of 
course,  we  could  have  got  some  sort  of  place  for  you  at  the  last 
moment.  She  didn’t  say  anything,  but  1 thought — if  you  won’t 
mind  my  saying  so,  Mr.  Kendal — that,  considering  all  things,  it 
would  have  been  better  if  you  had  been  there.” 

‘‘It  seems  to  me,”  said  Kendal,  with  vexation  in  his  voice,  ” that 
there  is  a fate  against  my  doing  anything  as  I ought  to  do  it.  1 
thought,  on  the  whole,  it  would  be  better  not  to  make  a fuss  about  it 
when  it  came  to  the  last.  You  see  she  must  look  upon  me  to  some 
extent  as  a critical,  if  not  a hostile,  influence,  and  1 did  not  wish  to 
remind  her  of  my  existence.” 

“ Oh,  well,”  said  Mrs.  Stuart  in  her  cheery  common-sense  way, 
that  evening  was  such  an  overwhelming  experience  that  1 don’t 
suppose  she  could  have  felt  any  soreness  toward  anybody.  And, 
do  you  know,  she  is  improved?  1 don’t  quite  know  what  it  is,  but 
certainly  one  or  two  of  those  long  scenes  she  does  more  intelligently, 
and  even  the  death-scene  is  better— less  monotonous.  I sometimes 
think  she  will  surprise  us  all  yet.” 

“ Very  likely,”  said  Kendal,  absently,  not  in  reality  believing  a 
word  of  it,  but  it  was  impossible  to  dissent. 

“ 1 hope  so,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Stuart,  “ with  all  my  heart.  She 
has  been  very  depressed  often  these  last  weeks,  and  certainlv,  on  the 
whole,  people  have  been  harder  upon  her  than  they  were  at  first.  I 
-am  bo  glad  that  she  and  your  sister  will  meet  in  Venice.  Madame 
de  Cha,teauvieux  is  just  the  friend  she  wants.” 

Kendal  walked  home  feeling  the  rankling  of  a fresh  pin-point. 
She  had  asked  for  him,  and  he  had  not  been  there!  What  must  she 
think,  apparently,  but  that,  from  a sour,  morose  consistency,  he  had 
refused  to  be  a witness  of  her  triumph! 

Oh,  hostile  fates! 

A week  later  Eustace  was  settled  in  the  Surrey  farm-house  which 
had  sheltered  the  Sunday  League  on  its  first  expedition.  The  Sur- 
rey country  was  in  its  full  glory:  the  first  purple  heather  was  fully 
out,  and  the  distant  hills  rose  blue  and  vaporous  across  stretches  of 
vivid  crimson,  broken  here  and  there  by  the  dim  gray  greens  of 
the  furze  or  the  sharper  color  of  the  bracken.  The  chorus  of  birds 
had  died  away,  but  the  nests  were  not  yet  tenantless.  The  great 
sand-pit  near  the  farm-house  was  still  vocal  with  innumerable  broods 
of  sand-martins,  still  enlivened  by  the  constant  skimming  to  and  fro 
of  the  parent  birds.  And  under  Kendal’s  sitting-room  window  a 
pair  of  tomtits,  which  the  party  had  watched  that  May  Sunday, 
were  just  launching  their  young  family  on  the  world.  One  of  his 
first  walks  was  to  that  spot  beyond  the  pond  wrhere  they  had  made 
their  afternoon  camping-ground.  The  nut-hatches  had  fled— fled, 
Kendal  hoped,  some  time  before,  for  the  hand  of  the  spoiler  had 
been  near  their  dwelling,  and  its  fragments  lay  scattered  on  the 
ground.  He  presently  learned  to  notice  that  he  never  heard  the 


60 


MISS  BRETHERTON, 


sharp  sound  ot  the  bird’s  tapping  beak  among  the  woods  without  a 
lit  lie  start  ot  recollection. 

Outside  his  walks,  his  days  were  spent  in  continuous  literary 
effort.  His  book  was  in  a condition  which  called  tor  all  his  ener- 
gies, and  he  threw  himself  vigorously  into  it.  The  first  weeks  were 
taken  up  with  a long  review  of  Victor  Hugo’s  prose  and  poetry,  with 
a view  to  a final  critical  result.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was 
stuff  in  the  great  Frenchman  to  suit  all  weathers  and  all  skies. 
There  were  somber,  wind-swept  days,  when  the  stretches  of  brown 
ling  not  yet  in  flower,  the  hurrying  clouds,  and  the  bending  trees, 
were  in  harmony  with  all  the  fierce  tempestuous  side  of  the  gnat 
Romantic.  There  were  others  when  the  homely,  tender,  domestic 
aspect  of  the  country  formed  a sort  of  framework  and  accompani- 
ment to  the  simpler  patriarchal  elements  in  the  books  which  Ken- 
dal had  about  him.  Then,  when  the  pages  on  Victor  Hugo  were 
written,  those  already  printed  on  Chateaubriand  began  to  dissatisfy 
him,  and  he  steeped  himself  once  more  in  the  rolling  artificial  har- 
monies, the  mingled  beauty  and  falsity  of  one  of  the  most  wonder- 
ful of  styles,  that  he  might  draw  from  it  its  secrets  and  say  a‘ last 
just  word  about  it. 

He  knew  a few  families  in  the  neighborhood,  but  he  kept  away 
from  them,  and  almost  his  only  connection  with  the  outer  world, 
during  his  first  month  in  the  country,  was  his  correspondence  with 
Madame  de  Chateauvieux,  who  was  at  Etret&t  with  her  husband. 
She  wrote  her  brother  very  lively,  characteristic  accounts  of  the  life- 
there,  filling  her  letters  with  amusing  sketches  of  the  political  or 
artistic  celebrities  with  whom  the  little  Norman  town  swarms  in  the 
season. 

After  the  third  or  fourth  letter,  however,  Kendal  began  to  look 
restlessly  at  the  Etretat  postmark,  to  reflect  that  Marie  had  been 
there  a long  time,  and  to  wonder  she  was  not  already  tired  of  such  a 
public  sort  of  existence  as  the  Etreffit  life.  The  bathing  scenes, 
and  the  fire- eating"  deputy,  and  the  literary  woman  with  a mission 
for  the  spread  of  naturalism,  became  very  flat  to  him.  He  was  as- 
tonished that  his  sister  was  not  as  anxious  to  start  for  Italy  as  he 
was  to  hear  that  she  had  done  so. 

This  temper  of  his  was  connected  with  the  fact  that  after  the  first 
of  August  he  began  to  develop  a curious  impatience  on  the  subject 
of  the  daily  post.  At  Old  House  Farm  the  post  was  taken  as  lei- 
surely as  everything  else;  there  was  no  regular  delivery,  and  Kendal 
generally  was  content  to  trust  to  the  casual  mercies  of  the  butcher 
or  baker  for  his  letters.  But,  after  the  date  mentioned,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  his  letters  reached  him  with  an  abominable  irregularity^ 
and  that  it  would  do  his  work  no  harm,  but,  on  the  contrary,  much 
good,  if  he  took  a daily  constitutional  in  the  direction  of  the  post- 
office,  which  gave  a touch  of  official  dignity  to  the  wasp-filled  pre- 
cincts of  a grocer’s  shop  in  the  village,  some  two  miles  oft. 

For  some  considerable  number  of  days,  however,  his  walks  only 
furnished  him  with  food  for  reflection  on  the  common  disproportion 
ot  means  to  ends  in  this  life.  His  sister’s  persistence  in  sticking  to 
the  soil  of  France  began  to  seem  to  him  extraordinary!  However,  at 
last,  I he  monotony  of  the  Etretat  postmaik3  was  broken  by  a post- 
card from  Lyons.  “We  are  here  for  the  night  on  some  business  ot 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


61 


Paul’s;  to-morrow  we  hope  to  be  at  Turin,  and  two  or  three  days 
later  at  Yenice.  By  the  way,  where  will  the  Brelhertons  be?  I 
must  trust  to  my  native  wits,  I suppose,  when  I get  there.  She  is 
not  the  sort  ot  light  to  be  hidden  under  a bushel.” 

This  post-card  disturbed  Kendal  not  a little,  and  he  felt  irritably 
that  somebody  had  mismanaged  matters.  He  had  supposed,  and  iu- 
deed  suggested,  that  Miss  Bretherton  should  inclose  his  note  in  one 
of  her  own  to  his  sister’s  Paris  address,  giving,  at  the  same  time, 
some  indication  of  a place  of  meeting  in  Yenice.  Bin  it  she  had 
not  done  this,  it  was  very  possible  that  the  two  women  might  miss 
each  other  after  all.  Sometimes,  when  he  had  been  contemplating 
this  possibility  with  disgust,  he  would  with  a great  effort  make 
himself  reflect  why  it  was  that  he  cared  about  the  matter  so  dispro- 
portionately. Why  was  he  so  deeply  interested  in  Isabel  Brother- 
ton’s  movements  abroad,  aud  in  the  meeting  which  would  bring  her, 
so  to  speak,  once  more  into  his  own  world?  Why  ! because  it  was 
impossible,  he  would  answer  himself  indignantly,  not  to  feel  a pro- 
found interest  in  any  woman  who  had  ever  shared  as  much  emotion 
with  you  as  she  had  with  him  in  those  moments  at  Nuneliam,  wrho 
had  received  a wound  at  your  hands,  had  winced  under  it,  and  still 
had  remained  gracious,  and  kind,  and  wmmanly!  “1  should  be  a 
hard-hearted  brute,”  he  said  to  himself,  “it  1 did  not  feel  a very 
deep  and  peculiar  interest  in  her — if  1 did  not  desire  that  Marie’s 
friendship  should  abundantly  make  up  to  her  for  my  blundering  l” 
Did  he  ever  really  deceive  himself  into  imagining  that  this  was 
all?  It  is  difficult  to  say.  The  mind  ot  a man  no  longer  young, 
aud  trained  in  all  the  subtleties  ot  thought,  does  not  deal  with  an 
invading  sentiment  exactly  as  a youth  would  do  with  all  his  experi- 
ence to  come.  It  steals  upon  him  more  slowly,  he  is  capable  of  dis- 
guising it  to  himself  longer,  of  escaping  from  it  into  other  interests. 
Passion  is  in  its  ultimate  essence  the  same,  wherever  it  appears  and 
under  whatever  conditions,  but  it  possesses  itself  of  human  life  in 
different  ways.  Slowly,  and  certainly,  the  old  primeval  fire,  the 
commonest,  tatalest,  divinest  force  of  life,  was  making  its  way  into 
Kendal's  nature.  Bat  it  was  making  its  way  against  antagonistic 
forces  of  habit,  tradition,  self-restraint— -it  found  a hundred  other 
interests  in  possession; — it  had  a strange  impersonality  and  timidity 
of  nature  to  fight  with.  Kendal  had  been  accustomed  to  live  in 
other  men’s  lives.  Was  he  only  just  beginning  to  live  his  own? 

But,  however  it  was,  he  wTas  at  least  conscious  during  this  waiting 
time  that  life  was  full  of  some  hidden  savor;  that  his  thoughts  were 
never  idle,  never  vacant;  that,  as  he  lay  flat  among  the  fern  in  his 
moments  of  rest,  following  the  march  of  the  clouds  as  they  sailed 
divinely  over  the  rich  breadth  and  color  of  the  commons,  a whole 
brood  of  images  nestled  at  his  heart,  or  seemed  to  hover  in  the  sunny 
air  before  him — visions  of  a slender  form  fashioned  w ith  Greek  sup- 
pleness and  majesty,  of  a soft  and  radiant  presence,  ot  locks  all 
womanliness,  and  gestures  alt  grace,  of  a smile  like  no  other  he  had 
ever  seen  for  charm,  of  a quick,  impulsive  gait!  He  followed  that 
figure  through  scene  after  scene;  he  saw  primroses  in  its  hand,  and 
the  pa’e  springffilue  above  it;  he  recalled  it  standing  tense  and  still 
with  blanched  cheek  and  fixed  appealing  eye,  wiiile  all  round  the  J une 
woods  murmured  In  the  breeze;  be  surrounded  it  in  imagination 


62 


MISS  BRETIIERTON-. 


with  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  the  stage,  and  realized  it  as  a 
center  of  emotion  to  thousands.  And  then  from  memories  he  would 
pass  on  to  speculations,  from  the  scenes  he  knew  to  those  he  could 
only  guess  at,  from  the  life  of  which  he  had  seen  a little  to  the  larger 
and  unexplored  life  beyond. 

And  so  the  days  went  on,  and  though  he  wras  impatient  and  rest- 
less, yet  indoors  his  work  was  congenial  to  him,  and  out  of  doors  the 
sun  was  bright  and  all  the  while  a certain  little  god  lay  hidden, 
speaking  no  articulate  word,  but  waiting  with  a mischievous  patience 
for  the  final  overthrow  of  one  more  poor  mortal. 

At  last  the  old  postmistress,  whom  he  had  almost  come  to  regard 
as  cherishing  a personal  grudge  against  him,  ceased  to  repulse  him, 
and,  after  his  seven  years  of  famine,  the  yeais  of  abundance  set  in. 
For  the  space  of  three  weeks  letters  from  Venice  lay  waiting  for  him 
almost  every  alternate  morning,  and  the  heathery  slopes  between 
the  farm  and  the  village  grew  familiar  with  the  spectacle  of  a tall 
thin  man  in  a rough  tweed  suit  struggling,  as  he  walked,  with  sheets 
of  foreign  paper  which  the  wind  was  doing  its  best  to  filch  away 
from  him. 

The  following  extracts  from  these  letters  contain  such  portions  of 
them  as  are  necessary  to  our  subject: 

“ Casa  Minghetti. 

“ My  dear  Eustace,—!  can  only  write  you  a very  scrappy  letter 
to-day,  for  we  are  just  settling  into  our  apartment,  and  the  rooms  are 
strewn  in  the  most  distracting  way  with  boxes,  books,  and  garments; 
while  my  maid,  Felicie,  and  the  old  Italian  woman,  Caterina,  who 
is  to  cook  and  manage  for  us,  seem  to  be  able  to  do  nothing — not 
even  to  put  a chair  straight,  or  order  some  bread  to  keep  us  from 
starving— without  consulting  me.  Paul,  taking  advantage  of  a 
husband’s  prerogative,  has  gone  off  to  flaner  on  the  Piazza,  while 
his  women-folk^make  life  tolerable  at  home;  which  is  a very  un- 
fair and  spiteful  version  of  his  proceedings,  for  he  has  really  gone 
as  much  on  my  business  as  on  his  own.  I sent  him — feeling  his 
look  of  misery,  as  he  sat  on  a packing-case  in  the  middle  of  this 
chaos,  terribly  on  my  mind^-to  see  it  he  could  find  the  English  con- 
sul (whom  he  knows  a little),  and  discover  from  him,  if  possible, 
where  your  friends  are.  It  is  strange,  as  you  say,  that  Miss  Brether- 
ton  should  not  have  written  to  me;  but  1 incline  to  put  it  down  to 
our  old  Jacques  at  home,  who  is  getting  more  and  more  imbecile 
with  the  weight  of  years  and  infirmities,  and  is  quite  capable  of  for- 
warding to  us  all  the  letters  which  are  not  worth  posting,  and  leav- 
ing all  the  important  ones  piled  up  in  the  hall  to  await  our  return. 
It  is  provoking,  for,  if  the  Bretherton  party  are  not  going  to  stay 
long  in  Venice,  we  may  easily  spend  all  our  time  in  looking  for  each 
other;  which  will,  indeed,  be  a lame  and  impotent  conclusion. 
However,  I have  hopes  of  Paul’s  cleverness. 

“ And  now,  four  o’clock!  There  is  no  help  for  it,  my  dear  Eus- 
tace. 1 must  go  and  instruct  Caterina  how  not  to  poison  us  in  our 
dinner  to-night.  She  looks  a dear  old  soul,  but  totally  innocent  of 
anything  but  Italian  barbarities  in  the  way  of  cooking.  And  Felicie 
also  is  well-meaning  but  ignorant,  so,  unless  1 wish  to  have  Paul  on 
my  hands  for  a week,  I must  be  off.  This  rough  picnicking  life, 
m Venice  of  all  places,  is  a curious  little  experience;  but  1 made  up 


MISS  BRETHERTON". 


63 


my  mind  last  time  we  weie  here  that  we  would  venture  our  precious 
selves  in  no  more  hotels.  The  heat,  the  mosquitoes,  the  horrors  of 
tne  food,  were  too  much.  Here  we  have  a garden,  a kitchen,  a cool 
sitting-room;  and  if  1 choose  to  feed  Paul  on  tisane  and  milk-pud- 
dings, who  is  to  prevent  me? 

“ Paul  has  just  come  in,  with  victory  written  on  his  brow. 
The  English  consul  was  of  no  use;  but,  as  he  was  strolling  home,  he 
went  into  St.  Mark’s,  and  there,  of  course,  found  them!  In  the 
church  were  apparently  all  the  English  people  who  have  as  yet  vent- 
ured to  Venice;  and  these,  or  most  of  them,  seemed  to  be  following 
in  the  wake  of  a little  party  of  four  persons — two  ladies,  a Gentle- 
man, and  a lame  girl  walking  with  a crutch.  An  excited  English 
tourist  condescended  to  inform  Paul  that  it  was  ‘ the  great  English 
actress.  Miss  Bretherton,’  who  was  creating  all  the  commutioih 
Then,  of  course,  he  went  up  tu  her — he  was  provoked  that  he  could 
hardly  see  her  in  the  dim  light  of  St.  Mark’s — introduced  himself, 
and  described  our  perplexities.  Of  course,  she  had  written.  1 ex- 
pected as  much.  Jacques  must  certainly  be  pensioned  oft!  Paul 
thought  the  other  thrf3e  very  inferior  to  her,  though  the  uncle  was 
civil,  and  talked  condescendingly  of  Venice  as  though  it  were  even 
good  enough  to  be  admired  by  a Worrall.  It  is  arranged  that  the 
beauty  is  to  come  and  see  me  to-morrow  if,  after  Caterina  has  oper- 
ated upon  us  during  two  meals,  we  are  still  alive.  Good-night,  and 
good-bye.” 

“ Venice,  August  7, 

“ Well,  1 have  seen  her!  It  has  been  a blazing  day.  1 was  sit- 
ting in  the  little  garden  which  separates  one  half  of  our  rooms  from 
the  other,  while  Caterina  was  arranging  the  dejouner  under  the  little 
acacia  arbor  in  the  center  of  it.  Suddenly  F elide  came  out  from  the 
house,  and  behind  her  a tall  figure  in  a large  hat  and  a white  dress. 
The  figure  held  out  Doth  hands  to  me  in  a cordial,  un-English  way, 
and  said  a number  of  pleasant  things,  rapidly,  in  a delicious  voice; 
while  I,  with  the  dazzle  of  the  sun  in  my  eyes  so  that  I could  hardly 
make  out  the  features,  stood  feeling  a little  thrilled  by  the  advent  of 
so  famous  a person.  In  a few  moments,  however,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  we  were  sitting  under  tl*e  acacias,  she  was  helping  me  to  cut  up 
the  melon  and  arrange  the  figs,  as  if  we  had  known  one  another  for 
months,  and  1 was  experiencing  one  of  those  sudden  rushes  of  lik- 
ing which,  as  you  know,  are  a weakness  of  mine.  She  stayed  and 
took  her  meal  with  us.  Paul,  of  course,  was  fascinated,  and  for  l 
once  has  not  set  her  down  as  a reputation  surfaite. 

“ Her  beauty  has  a curious  air  of  the  place;  and  now  1 remember 
that  her  mother  was  Italian— Venetian,  actually,  was  it  not?  That  ^ 
accounts  for  it;  she  is  the  Venetian  type  spiritualized.  At  the 
foundation  of  her  face,  as  it  were,  lies  the  face  of  the  Burano  lace- 
maker;  only  the  original  type  has  been  so  lefined,  so  chiseled  and 
smoothed  away,  that,  to  speak  fancifully,  only  a beautiful  ghost  of 
it  remains.  That  large  stateliness  of  her  movement,  too,  is  Italian. 
You  may  see  it  in  any  V enetian  street,  and  Veronese  has  fixed  it 
in  art. 

“ While  we  were  sitting  in  the  garden  who  should  be  announced 
but  Edward  Wallace?  I knew,  of  course,  from  you  that  he  might 


<34 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


be  here  about  this  time,  but  in  the  hurry  of  our  settling  in  1 had 
quite  iorgotten  his  existence,  so  that  the  sight  of  his  trim  person 
bearing  down  upon  us  was  a surprise.  He  and  the  Bretherton  party, 
however,  had  been  going  about  together  for  several  days,  so  that  he 
and  she  had  plenty  of  gossip  in  common.  Miss  Bretherton’s  en- 
thusiasm about  Venice  is  of  a very  naive , hot,  outspoken  kind.  It 
seems  to  me  that  she  is  a very  susceptible  creature.  She  lives  her 
life  fast,  and  crowds  into  it  a greater  number  of  sensations  than  most 
people.  All  this  zest  and  pleasure  must  consume  a vast  amount  of 
nervous  force,  but  it  makes  her  very  refreshing  to  people  as  biases  as 
Paul  and  1 are.  My  first  feeling  about  her  is  very  much  what 
yours  was.  Personally,  there  seems  to  be  all  the  stuff  in  her  of 
which  an  actress  is  made;  will  she  some  day  stumble  upon  the  dis- 
covery of  how  to  bring  her  own  individual  flame  and  force  to  bear 
upon  her  art?  I should  think  it  not  unlikely,  and,  altogether,  1 feel 
as  though  I should  take  a more  hopeful  view  of  her  intellectually 
than  you  do.  You  see,  my  dear  Eustace,  you  men  never  realize  how 
clever  we  women  are,  how  fast  we  lefrn,  and  how  quickly  we  catch 
up  hints  from  all  quarters  under  heaven  and  improve  upon  them. 
An  actress  so  young  and  so  sympathetic  as  Isabel  Bretherton  must 
still  be  very  much  of  an  unknown  quantity  dramatically.  1 know 
you  think  that  the  want  of  training  is  fatal,  and  that  popularity  will 
stereotype  her  faults.  It  may  be  so;  but  I am  inclined  to  think,  from 
my  first  sight  of  her,  that  she  is  a nature  that  will  gather  from  life 
rather  what  stimulates  it  than  what  dulls  and  vulgarizes  it.  Alto- 
gether, when  1 compare  my  first  impressions  of  her  with  the  image 
of  her  left  by  vour  letters,  1 feel  that  1 have  been  p’-easantly  sur- 
prised. Only  in  the  matter  of  intelligence.  Otherwise  it  has,  of 
course,  been  your  descriptions  of  her  that  have  planted  and  nurtured 
in  me  that  strong  sense  of  attraction  which  blossomed  into  liking  at 
the  moment  of  personal  contact.’ ’ 

“ August  10. 

*■*  This  afternoon  we  have  been  out  in  the  gondola  belonging  to 
this  modest  establishment,  with  our  magnificent  gondolier,  Piero, 
and  his  boy,  to  convey  us  to  the  Lido.  1 got  Miss  Bretherton  to  talk 
to  me  about  her  Jamaica  career  She  made  us  all  laugh  with  her 
accounts  of  the  blood-and-thunder  pieqps  in  which  the  audiences  at 
the  Kingston  Theater  reveled.  She  seems  generally  to  have  plaved 
the  4 Bandit’s  Daughter,’  the  ‘ Smuggler’s  Wife,’  or  ‘ The  European 
damsel  carried  off  by  Indians,’  or  some  other  thrilling  elemental  per- 
sonage of  the  kind.  ‘ The  White  Lady  ’ was,  apparently,  her  first 
introduction  to  a more  complicated  order  of  play.  It  is  extraordin- 
ary, when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  how  littie  positive  dramatic 
knowledge  she  must  have!  She  knows  some  Shakespeare,  1 think 
— at  least,  she  mentions  two  or  three  plays — and  1 gather  from 
something  she  said  that  she  is  now  making  the  inevitable  study  of 
Juliet  that  every  actress  makes  sooner  or  later;  but  Sheridan,  Gold- 
smith, and,  of  course,  all  the  French  people,  are  mere  names  to  her. 
When  1 think  of  t*he  minute  exhaustive  training  our  Paris  actors  go 
through,  and  compare  it  with  such  a state  of  nature  as  hers,  1 am 
amazed  at  what  she  has  done!  For,  after  all,  you  know,  she  must 
be  able  to  act  to  some  extent;  she  must  know  a great  deal  more  of 
her  business  than  you  and  1 suspect,  or  she  could  not  get  on  at  all.” 


MISS  BRETHERTOX. 


65 


“ August  1C. 

4 ' It  is  almost  a week,  I see,  since  1 wrote  to  you  last.  During  that 
time  we  have  seen  a great  deal  more  of  Miss  Bretherton,  sometimes 
in  company  with  hei  belongings,  sometimes  without  them,  and  my 
impressions  of  her  have  ripened  very  fast.  Oh,  my  dear  Eustace, 
you  have  been  hasty —all  the  world  has  been  hasty!  Isabel  Br  ether  - 
ton’s  real  self  is  only  now  coming  to  the  front,,  and  it  is  a self  which, 
as  I say  to  in}rself  with  astonishment,  not  even  your  keen  eyes  have 
ever  seen — baldly  suspected  even.  Should  1,  myself  a woman  ,have 
been  as  blind  to  a woman’s  capabilities,  I wonder?  Very  likely! 
These  sudden  rich  developments -of  youth  are  often  beyond  all  cal- 
culation. 

“ Mr.  Wallace’s  attitude  makes  me  realize  more  than  I otherwise 
could  the  past  and  present  condition  of  things.  He  comes  and  talks 
to  me  with  amazement  of  the  changes  in  her  tone  and  outlook,  of  the 
girl’s  sharpening  intellect  and  growing  sensitiveness,  and  as  he  re- 
calls incidents  and  traits  of  the  London  season — confessions  or  judg- 
ments or  blunders  of  hers,  and  puts  them  beside  the  impiession 
which  he  sees  her  to  be  making  on  Paul  and  myself— 1 begin  to  un- 
derstand from  his  talk  and  his  bewilderment  something  of  ths  real 
nature  of  the  case.  Intellectually,  it  has  been  ‘ the  ugly  duckling’ 
over  again.  Under  all  the  crude,  unfledged  imperfection  of  her 
young  performance,  you  people  who  have  watched  her  with  your 
trained  critical  eyes  seem  to  me  never  to  have  suspected  the  coming 
wings,  the  strange  nascent  power,  which  is  only  now  asserting  itself 
in  the  light  of  day. 

“ ‘ What  has  Eustace  been  about?’  said  Paul  to  me  last  night, 
after  we  had  all  returned  from  rambling  round  and  round  the 
moonlit  Piazza,  and  he  had  been  describing  to  me  his  talk  with  her. 

4 He  ought  to  have  seen  further  ahead.  That  creature  is  only  just 
beginning  to  live — and  it  will  be  a life  worth  having!  He  has 
kindled  it,  too,  as  much  as  anybody.  Of  course  we  have  not  seen 
her  act  yet,  and  ignorani — yes,  she  is  certainly  ignorant— though 
not  so  much  as  I imagined.  But  as  for  natural  power  and  delicacy 
of  mind,  there  can  be  no  question  at  all  about  them!’ 

“ ‘1  don’t  know  that  Eustace  did  question  them,’  I said;  ‘he 
thought  simply  that  she  had  no  conception  of  w^hat  her  art  really  re- 
quired of  her,  and  never  would  have  because  of  her  popularity.’ 

“ To  which  Paul  replied  that,  as  tar  as  he  could  make  out,  nobody 
thought  more  meanly  of  her  popularity  than  she  did,  and  he  has 
been  talking  a great  deal  to  her  about  her  season. 

“ ‘ 1 never  saw  a woman  at  a more  critical  or  interesting  point  of 
development,’  he  exclaimed  at  last,  striding  up  and  down,  and  so 
absorbed  in  the  subject  that  1 could  have  almost  laughed  at  his  eager- 
ness. ‘ Something  or  other,  luckily  foi  her,  set  her  on  the  right 
track  three  months  ago,  and  it  is  apparently  a natui eon  which  noth- 
ing is  lost.  One  can  see  it  in  the  way  in  which  she  takes  Venice: 
there  isn’t  a scrap  of  her— little  as  she  knows  about  it — that  isn’t 
keen  and  interested  and  wide-awake!’ 

“ * Well,  alter  all,’  1 reminded  him  as  he  was  settling  down  to  his 
books,  ‘ we  know  nothing  about  her  as  an  actress.’ 

“‘We  shall  see,’  he  said;  ‘ 1 will  find  out  something  about  that 
too  before  long.’  ” 


66 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


“ And  so  he  has! 

“ August  17-19. 

“ Paul  has  been  devoting  himself  more  and  more  to  the  beauty, 
Mr.  Wallace  and  I looking  on  with  considerable  amusement  and  in- 
terest; and  this  afternoon,  finding  it  intolerable  that  MissBrethevton 
has  not  even  a bowing  acquaintance  with  any  of  his  favorite  plays, 
Augier,  Dumas,  Victor  Hugo,  or  anything  else,  he  has  been  reading 
aloud  to  us  in  the  garden,  running  on  from  scene  to  scene  and 
speech  to  speech,  translating  as  he  went — she  in  rapt  attention,  and 
he  gesticulating  and  spouting,  and,  except  for  an  occasional  queer 
rendering  that  made  us  laugh,  getting  on  capitally  with  his  English. 
She  was  enchanted;  the  novelty  and  the  excitement  of  it  absorbed 
her;  and  every  now  and  then  she  would  stop  Paul  with  a little  im- 
perious wave  of  her  hand,  and  repeat  the  substance  of  a speech  after 
him  with  an  impetuous  elan,  an  energy  of  comprehension,  which 
drew  little  nods  of  satisfaction  out  of  him,  and  sometimes  produced 
a strong  and  startling  effect  upon  myself  and  Mr.  Wallace.  How- 
ever, Mr.  Wallace  might  stare  as  he  liked;  the  two  people  concerned 
were  totally  unconscious  of  the  rest  of  us,  until  at  last,  after  the 
great  death-  scene  in  the  Nuit  Blanche,  Paul  threw  down  the  book 
almost  with  a sob,  and  she,  rising  in  a burst  of  feeling,  held  out  her 
white  arms  toward  an  imaginary  lover,  and  with  extraordinary  skill 
and  memory  repeated  the  substance  of  the  heroine’s  last  speeches: — 

“ ‘ Achilie,  beloved!  my  eyes  are  dim — the  mists  of  death  are 
gathering.  O Achilie!  the  white  cottage  by  the  river — the  nest  in 
the  reeds— your  face  and  mine  in  the  water — the  blue  heaven  below 
us  in  the  stream— O joy,  quick!  those  hands,  those  lips!  But  listen, 
listen!  it  is  the  cruel  wind  rising,  rising:  it  chills  me  to  the  bone,  it 
chokes,  it  stifles  me!  I can  not  see  the  river,  and  the  cottage  is  gone, 
and  the  sun.  O Achilie,  it  is  dark,  so  dark!  Gather  me  close,  be- 
loved!— closer,  closer!  O death  is  kind — tender,  like  your  touch!  I 
have  no  fears — none!’ 

“ She  sunk  back  into  her  chair.  Anything  more  pathetic,  more 
noble  than  her  intonation  of  those  words,  could  not  have  been  im- 
agined. DesfortRs  herself  could  not  have  spoken  them  with  a more 
simple,  a more  piercing  tenderness.  I was  so  confused  by  a multi- 
tude of  conflicting  feelings— my  owTn  impressions  and  yours,  the 
realities  of  the  present  position  and  the  possibilities  of  the  future— 
that  1 forgot  to  applaud  her.  It  was  the  first  time  1 had  had  any 
glimpse  at  all  of  her  dramatic  power,  and,  rough  and  imperfect  as 
the  test  was,  it  seemed  to  me  enough.  I have  not  been  so  devoted 
to  the  FranQais , and  to  some  of  the  people  connected  with  it,  for  ten 
years,  tor  nothing!  One  gets  a kind  of  insight  from  long  habit 
which,  1 think,  one  may  trust.  Oh,  you  blind  Eustace,  how  could 
you  forget  that  for  a creature  so  full  of  primitive  energy,  so  rich  in 
the  stuff  of  life,  nothing  is  irreparable!  Education  has  passed  her 
by.  Well,  she  will  go  to  find  her  education.  She  will  make  a 
teacher  out  of  every  friend,  out  of  every  sensation  Incident  and 
feeling,  praise  and  dispraise,  will  all  alike  tend  to  mold  the  sensitive 
plastic  material  into  shape  So  far  she  may  have  remained  outside 
her  art;  ihe  art,  no  doubt,  has  been  a conventional  appendage,  and 
little  moie.  Training  would  have  given  her  good  conventions, 
whereas  she  has  only  picked  up  bad  apd  imperfect  ones.  But  no 


MISS  BRETHERTOX. 


07 


training  could  have  given  her  what  she  will  evidently  soon  develop 
for  herself,  that  force  and  flame  ol  imagination  which  fuses  together 
instrument  and  idea  in  one  great  artistic  whole.  She  has  that  im- 
agination. You  can  see  it  in  her  responsive  ways,  her  quick  sensi- 
tive emotion.  Only  let  it  be  roused  and  guided  to  a certain  height, 
and  it  will  overleap  the  barriers  which  have  hemmed  it  in,  and  pour 
itself  into  the  channels  made  ready  for  it  by  her  art. 

“ There,  at  least,  you  have  my  strong  impression.  If  is,  in  many 
wajTs,  at  variance  wilh  some  of  my  most  cherished  principles;  for 
both  you  and  I are  perhaps  inclined  to  overrate  the  value  of  educa- 
tion, whether  technical  or  general,  in  its  effect  on  the  individuality. 
And,  of  course,  a better  technical  preparation  would  have  saved 
Isabel  Bretherton  an  immerse  amount  of  time;  would  have  prevented 
her  from  contracting  a host  of  bad  habits — all  of  which  she  wiU 
have  to  unlearn.  But  the  root  of  the  matter  is  in  her;  of  that  1 am 
sure;  and  whatever  weight  of  hostile  circumstance  may  be  against 
her,  she  will,  if  she  keeps  her  health— as  to  which  I am  sometimes, 
like  you,  a little  anxious — breaK  through  it  all  and  triumph. 

“ But  if  you  did  not  understand  her  quite,  you  have  enormously 
helped  her;  so  much  I will  tell  you  for  your  comfort.  She  said  to 
me  yesterday  abruptly— we  were  alone  in  our  gondola,  far  out  on 
the  lagoon — ‘ Did  your  brother  ever  tell  you  of  a conversation  he  and 
i had  in  the  woods  at  Nuneham  about  Mr.  Wallace’s  play?’ 

“ 4 Yes,’  I answered  with  outward  boldness,  but  a little  inward 
trepidation;  ‘ 1 have  not  known  anything  distress  him  so  much  for  a 
long  time.  He  thought  you  had  misunderstood  him.’ 

44  ‘ No,’  she  said  quietly,  but  as  it  seemed  to  me  with  an  undercur- 
rent of  emotion  in  her  voice;  ‘ 1 did  not  misunderstand  him.  He 
meant  what  he  said,  and  1 would  have  forced  the  truth  from  him, 
whatever  happened.  I was  deiermined  to  make  him  show  me  what 
he  felt  That  London  season  was  sometimes  terrible  to  me.  I 
seemed  to  myself  to  be  living  in  two  worlds— one  a world  in  which 
there  was  always  a sea  of  faces  opposite  to  me,  or  crowds  about  me, 
and  a praise  ringing  in  my  ears  which  was  enough  to  turn  anybody’s 
head,  but  which  after  a while  repelled  me  as  if  there  was  something 
humiliating  in  it;  and  then,  on  the  other  side,  a little  inner  world  of 
people  1 cared  foi  and  respected,  who  looked  at  me  kindly,  and 
thought  for  me,  but  to  whom  as  an  actress  1 was  just  of  no  account 
at  all!  It  was  your  brother  who  .first  roused  that  sense  in  me;  it  was 
so  strange  and  painful,  tor  how  could  1 help  at  first  believing  in  all 
the  hubbub  and  applause?’ 

“ ‘ Poor  child!’  1 said,  reaching  out  my  hand  for  one  of  hers. 

6 Did  Eustace  make  himself  disagreeable  to  you?’ 

4 4 4 It  was  more,  I thinK,’  she  answered,  as  if  reflecting,  * the 
standard  he  always  seemed  to  carry  about  with  him  than  anything 
connected  wuth  my  own  work.  At  least,  of  course,  1 mean  before 
that  Nuneham  day.  Ah,  that  Nuneham  day!  It  cut  deep.’ 

“ She  turned  away  from  me,  and  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  boat, 
so  that  1 could  not  see  her  face. 

“ 4 You  forced  it  out  of  Eustace,  you  know,’  1 said,  trying  to 
laugh  at  her,  4 you  uncompromising  young  person!  Of  course,  he 
flattered  himself  that  you  forgot  all  about  his  preaching  the  moment 


68 


MISS  BRETHE11T0M. 


you  got  home.  Men  always  make  themselves  believe  what  they 
want  to  believe  ’ 

“ ‘ Why  should  he  want  to  believe  so?’  she  replied  quickly.  ‘ I 
had  half  foreseen  it,  I had  forced  it  from  him,  and  yet  1 fell  it  like 
a blow ! It  cost  me  a sleepless  night,  and  some — well,  some  very 
bitter  tears.  Not  that  the  tears  were  a new  experience.  How  often, 
after  all  that  noise  at  the  theater,  have  1 gone  home  and  cried  my- 
self lo  sleep  over  the  impossibility  of  doing  what  I wanted  to  do,  of 
moving  those  hundreds  of  people,  of  making  them  feel,  and  of  put- 
ting my  own  feeling  into  shape!  But  that  night,  and  with  my 
sense  of  illness  just  then,  1 saw  myself — it  seemed  to  me  quite  in 
the  near  future — grown  old  and  ugly,  a forgotten  failure,  without 
any  of  those  memories  which  console  people  who  have  been  great 
iwhen  they  must  give  up.  I felt  myself  struggling  against  such  a 
weight  of  ignorance,  of  bad  habits,  of  unfavorable  surroundings. 
How  was  1 ever  to  get  free  and  to  reverse  that  judgment  of  Mr. 
Kendal’s?  My  very  success  stood  in  my  way.  Hov^was  “Miss 
Bretherton  ” to  put  herself  to  school?’  / - 

“ ‘ But  now,’  I said  to  her  warmly,  ‘ you  have  got  free;  or,  rather, 
you  are  on  the  wray  to  freedom.’ 

“ She  thought  a little  without  speaking,  her  chin  resting  on  her 
hand,  her  elbow  on  her  knee.  We  were  passing  the  great  red-brown 
mass  of  the  Armenian  convent.  She  seemed  to  be  drinking  in  the 
dazzling  harmonies  of  blue  and  warm  brown  and  pearly  light. 
When  she  did  speak  again  it  was  very  slowly,  as  though  she  were 
trying  to  give  words  to  a number  of  complex  impressions. 

“ ‘ Yes,’  she  said;  ‘ it  seems  to  me  that  1 am  different;  but  1 can’t 
tell  exactly  how  or  why.  1 see  all  sorts  of  new  possibilities,  new 
meanings  everywhere;  that  is  one  halt  of  it!  But  the  other,  and 
the  greater,  half  is — how  to  make  all  these  new  feelings  and  any 
new  knowledge  which  may  come  to  me  tell  on  my  art.’  Arid  then 
she  changed  altogether  with  one  of  those  delightful  swift  trans- 
formations of  hers,  and  her  lace  rippled  with  laughter.  ‘ At  present 
the  chief  result  of  the  difference,  whatever  it  may  be,  seems  to  be 
to  make  me  most  unmanageable  at  home.  1 am  forever  disagreeing 
with  my  people,  saying  I can’t  do  thi3  and  I won’t  do  that.  1 am 
getting  lo  enjoy  having  my  own  way  in  the  most  abominable  man- 
ner.’ And  then  she  caught  my  hand,  that  was  holding  hers,  be- 
tween both  her  own,  and  said  halt  laughing  and  half  in  earnest — 

“ 4 Did  you  ever  realize  that  1 don’t  know  any  single  language  be- 
sides my  own-— not  even  French?  That  1 can’t  read  any  French  book 
or  any  French  play?’’ 

“ ‘ Well,’  1 said,  half  laughing  too,  1 it  is  very  astonishing.  And 
you  know  it  can’t  go  on  if  you  are  to  do  what  I think  you  will  do. 
French  you  positively  must  learn,  and  learn  quickly.  I don’t  mean 
to  say  that  ve  haven’t  good  plays  and  a tradition  of  our  own;  but 
for  the  moment  France  is  the  center  of  your  art,  and  you  can  not 
remain  at  a distance  from  it!  The  French  have  organized  their 
knowledge;  it  is  available  tor  all  who  come.  Ours  is  still  floating 
and  amateurish--’ 

“ And  so  on.  You  may  imagine  it,  my  dear  Eustace;  1 spare  you 
any  more  of  it  verbatim.*  After  I had  talked  away  for  a long  time 
and  brought  it  ail  back  to  the  absolute  necessity  that  she  should 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


69 


know  French  and  become  acquainted  with  French  acting  and  French 
diamatic  ideals,  she  pulled  me  up  in  the  full  career  of  eloquence,  by 
demanding  with  a little  practical  air,  a twinkle  lurking  somewhere 
in  her  eyes — 

“ ‘ Explain  to  me,  please;  how  is  it  to  be  done?’ 

“ ‘ Oh,’  1 said,  4 nothing  is  easier.  Do  you  know  anything  at  all?* 

“ ‘ Very  little.  I once  had  a term’s  lessons  at  Kingston.’ 

“ ‘ Very  well,  then,’  I went  on,  enjoying  this  little  comedy  of  a 
neglected  education,  * get  a French  maid,  a French  master,  and 
a novel : I will  provide  you  with  ‘ Consuelo  ’ and  a translation  to- 
morrow. ’ 

“ ‘ As  for  the  French  maid,’  she  answered  dubiously,  shaking  her 
head,  ‘ I don’t  know.  1 expect  my  old  black  woman  that  I brought 
with  me  from  Jamaica  would  ill-treat  her — perhaps  murder  her. 
But  the  master  can  be  managed  and  the  novel.  Will  none  of  you 
laugh  at  me  if  you  see  me  trailing  a French  grammar  about?’ 

“ And  so  she  has  actually  begun  to-day.  She  makes  a pretense  of 
keeping  her  novel  and  a little  dictionary  and  grammar  in  a bag,  and 
hides  them  when  any  one  appears.  But  Paul  has  already  begun  to 
tease  her  about  her  new  and  mysterious  occupation,  and  1 foresee 
that  he  will  presently  spend  the  greater  pari  of  his  mornings  in  teach- 
ing her.  I never  saw  anybody  attract  him  so  much;  she  is  absolutely 
different  from  anything^  he  has  seen  before;  and,  as  he  says,  the 
mixture  of  ignorance  and  genius  in  her — yes,  genius;  don't  be 
startled! — is  most  stimulating  to  the  imagination.” 

“ August  22. 

“ During  the  last  few  days  1 have  not  been  seeing  so  much  of  Miss 
Bretherton  as  before.  She  has  been  devoting  herself  to  her  family, 
and  Paul  and  I have  been  doing  our  pictures.  We  cannot  persuade 
her  to  take  any  very  large  dose  of  galleries;  it  seems  to  me  that  her 
thoughts  are  set  on  one  subject — and  one  subject  only — and  while 
she  is  in  this  first  stage  of  intensity,  it  is  not  likely  that  anything 
else  will  have  a chance. 

“ It  is  amusing  to  study  the  dissatisfaction  of  the  uncle  and  aunt 
With  the  turn  things  have  taken  since  they  left  London.  Mr.  Worrall 
has  been  evidently  accustomed  to  direct  his  niece’s  life  from  top  to 
bottom — to  choose  her  plays  tor  her,  helped  by  Mr.  Robinson;  to  ad- 
vise her  as  to  her  fellow-actors,  and  her  behavior  in  society;  and  all, 
of  course,  with  a shrewd  eye  to  the  family  profit,  and  as  little  regard 
as  need  be  to  any  fantastical  conception  of ’art. 

“ Now,  however,  Isabel  has  asserted  herself  in  several  unexpected 
ways.  She  has  refused  altogether  to  open  her  autumn  season  with 
the  play  which  had  been  nearly  decided  on  before  they  left  London 
— a flimsy  spectacular  performance  quite  unworthy  of  her.  As  soon 
as  pqssible  she  will  make  important  changes  in  the  troupe  who  are 
to  be  with  her,  and  at  the  beginning  of  September  she  is  coming  to 
stay  three  weeks  with  us  in  Paris,  and,  in  all  probability  (though 
the  world  is  to  know  nothing  of  it),  Perrault  of  the  Conservatoire, 
who  is  a great  friend  of  ours,  will  give  her  a good  deal  of  positive 
teaching."  This  last  arrangement  is  particularly  exasperating  to  Mr. 
Worrall.  He  regards  it  as  sure  to  be  known,  a ridiculous  confes- 
sion of  weakness  on  Isabel’s  part,  and  so  on.  However,  in  spite  of 


70 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


his  wrath  and  the  aunt’s  sullen  or  tearful  disapproval,  she  has  stood 
firm,  and  matters  are  so  arranged.  ” 

“ Saturday  night,  August  25. 

“ This  evening  we  persuaded  her  at  last  to  give  us  some  scenes  of 
Juliet.  How  1 wish  you  could  have  been  here!  It  was  one  of  those 
experiences  which  remain  with  one  as  a sort  of  perpetual  witness  to 
the  poetiy  which  life  holds  in  it,  and  may  yield  up  to  one  at  any 
moment.  It  was  in  our  little  garden;  the  moon  was  high  above  the 
houses  opposite,  and  the  narrow  canal  running  past  our  side  railing  . 
into  the  Grand  Canal  was  a shining  streak  of  silver.  The  air  was 
balmy  and  absolutely  still;  no  more  perfect  setting  to  Shakespeare 
or  to  Juliet  could  have  been  imagined.  Paul  sat  at  a little  table  in 
front  of  the  rest  of  us;  he  was  to  read  Romeo  and  the  Nurse  in  the 
scenes  she  had  chosen,  while  in  the  background  were  the  Worralls  ^ 
and  Lucy  Bretherton  (the  little  crippled  sister),-  Mr.  Wallace,  and 
myself.  She  did  the  balcony  scene,  the  morning  scene  with  Romeo, 
the  scene  with  the  nurse  after  Tybalt’s  death,  and  the  scene  of  the 
philtre.  There  is  an  old  sundial  in  the  garden,  which  caught  the 
moonbeams.  She  leaned  her  arms  upon  it,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
throbbing  moonlit  sky,  her  white  brocaded  dress  glistening  here  and 
there  in  the  pale  light —a  vision  of  perfect  beauty.  And  when  she 
began  her  sighing  appeal— 

“ O,  Romeo,  Romeo,  wherefore  art  fhou  Romeo?”— 

it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  night— the  passionate  Italian  night — had 
found  ils  voice— the  only  vobe  which  fitted  it. 

“ Afterward  1 tried  as  much  as  possible  to  shake  off  the  impres- 
sions peculiar  to  the  scene  itself,  to  think  of  her  under  the  ordinary 
conditions  of  the  stage,  to  judge  her  purely  as  an  actress.  In  the 
love  scenes  there  seemed  hardly  anything  to  find  fault  with.  1 
though  1 could  trace  in  many  places  the  influence  of  her  constant 
dramatic  talks  and  exercises  with  Paul.  The  flow  of  passion  was 
continuous  and  electric,  but  marked  by  all  the  simpleness,  all  the 
sweetness,  all  the  young  winsome  extravagance  which  belong  to 
Juliet.  The  great  scene  with  the  Nurse  had  many  fine  things  in  it; 
she  had  evidently  worked  hard  at  it  line  by  line,  and  that  speech  of 
Juliet’s  with  its  extraordinary  dramatic  capabilities — 

“ Shall  I speak  ill  of  him  that  is  my  husband?”— 

~ was  given  with  admirable  variety  and  suppleness  of  intonation.  The  _ 
j dreary  sweetness  of  her 

• “ Banished  ! that  one  word  banished  /” 

still  lives  with  me,  and  her  gestures  as  she  paced  restlessly  along  the 
little  strip  of  moonlit  path.  The  speech  before  she  takes  the  potion 
was  the  least  satisfactory  of  all;  the  ghastliness  and  horror  of  it 
are  beyond  her  resources  as  yet;  she  could  not  infuse  them  with  that 
terrible  beauty  which  Desforgts  would  have  given  to  every  line.  But 
where  is  the  English  actress  that  has  ever  yet  succeeded  in  it? 

“ We  were  all  silent  for  a minute  after  her  great  cry — 

“ Romeo,  Romeo,  Romeo,  I drink  to  thee !” 


MISS  BRETHERTON*. 


71 


Bad  died  upon  our  ears.  And  then,  while  we  applauded  her,  she 
came  forward  listlessly,  her  beautiful  head  drooping,  and  approached 
Paul  like  a child  that  has  had  its  lesson  badly. 

“ ‘ 1 can’t  do  it,  that  speech ; 1 can’t  do  it!’ 

44  4 It  wants  more  work,’  said  Paul;  4 you’ll  get  it.  But  the  rest 
was  admirable.  You  must  have  worked  very  hard!’ 

" 4 So  1 have/  she  said,  brightening  at  the  waiinth  of  his  praise. 

4 But  Diderot  is  wrong,  wrong,  wrong!  When  I could  once  reach 
the  feeling  of  the  Tybalt  speech,  when  1 could  once  hate  him  tor  - 
killing  Tybalt  in  the  same  breath  in  which  I loved  him  for  being  " 
Romeo,  all  was  easy  ; gesture  and  movement  came  to  me;  1 learned  - 
them,  and  the  thing  was  done.’ 

4*  The  reference,  of  course,  meant  that  Paul  had  been  reading  to 
her  his  favorite  4 Paradoxe  sur  le  Comedien,’  and  that  she  had  been 
stimulated,  but  not  converted,  by  the  famous  contention  that  the 
actor  should  be  the  mere  4 cold  and  tranquil  spectator,’  the  imitator 
of  other  men's  feelings;  while  possessing  none  of  his  own.  He 
naturally  would  have  argued,  but  1 would  not  have  it,  and  made 
her  rest.  She  was  quite  worn  out  with  the  effort,  and  1 do  not  like 
this  excessive  fatigue  of  hers.  1 often  wonder  whether  the  life  she 
is  leading  is  not  too  exciting  for  her.  This  is  supposed  to  be  her 
holiday,  and  she  is  really  going  through  more  brain-waste  than  she 
has  ever  done  in  her  life  before!  Paul  is  throwing  his  wrhole  en- 
ergies into  one  thing  only,  the  training  of  Miss  Bretherton;  and  he 
is  a man  of  forty-eight,  with  an  immense  experience,  and  she  a girl 
of  twenty-one,  with  every  thing  to  learn,  and  as  easily  excited  as  he  is 
capable  of  exciting  her.  1 really  must  keep  him  in  check. 

44  Mr.  Wallace,  when  we  had  sent  her  home  across  the  canal — • 
their  apartment  is  on  the  other  side,  further  up  toward  the  railway 
station — could  not  say  enough  to  me  of  his  amazement  at  the  change 
in  her. 

41 4 What  have  you  done  to  her?’  he  asked.  4 1 can  hardly  rec- 
ognize the  old  Miss  Bretherton  at  all.  Is  it  really  not  yet  four  months 
since  your  brother  and  1 went  to  see  her  in  the  44  White  Lady  ”? 
Why,  ymu  have  bewitched  her!’ 

4 4 4 We  have  done  something,  I admit,’  I said;  4 but  the  power  you 
see  developed  in  her  now  was  roused  in  her  when  months  ago  she 
first  came  in  contact  with  the  new  world  and  the  new  ideal  which  * 
you  and  Eustace  represented  to  her.  ’ 

44  There,  my  dear  Eustace,  have  1 given  you  your  due?  Oh,  Miss 
Bretherton  says  so  many  kind  things  about  you!  I’ll  take  especial 
pains  to  tell  you  some  of  them  next  time  I write.”  „ 

Wallace  to  Kendal. 

“ Venice,  August  27.  * 

44  My  dear  Kendal, — This  has  been  a day  of  events  which,  I be- 
lieve, will  interest  you  as  much  as  they  did  me.  I told  Madame  de 
Chateauvieux  that  1 should  write  to  you  to-night,  and  my  letter,  she 
says,  must  do  in  place  of  one  from  her  tor  a day  or  two.  We  have 
been  to  Toroello  to-day  — youi  sister,  M.  de  Chateauvieux,  Miss 
Bretherton,  and  1.  The  expedition  itself  was  delightful,  but  that  I 
have  no  time  to  describe.  1 only  want  to  tell  you  what  happened 
when  we  got  to  Torcello. 


72 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


“ But  first,  you  will,  of  course,  know  from  your  sister’s  letter — she 
tells  me  he  writes  to  you  twice  a week — liow  absorbed  we  have  all 
been  in  the  artistic  progress  of  Miss  Bretherton.  1 myself  never 
saw  such  a change,  such  an  extraordinary  development  in  any  one. 
How  was  it  that  you  and  1 did  not  see  further  into  her?  1 see  now, 
as  I look  back  upon  her  old  self,  that  the  new  self  was  there  in 
germ.  But  1 think  perhaps  it  may  have  been  the  vast  disproportion 
of  her  celebrity  to  her  performance  that  blinded  us  to  the  promise  in 
her;  it  was  irritation  with  the  public  that  made  us  deliver  an  over- 
hasty  verdict  on  her. 

“ However  that  may  be,  1 have  been  making  up  my  mind  for 
some  days  past  that  the  embassy  on  behalf  of  Elvira  which  1 
thrust  upon  you,  and  which  you  so  generously  undertook,  was  a 
blunder  on  my  part  which  it  would  be  delightful  to  repair,  and 
which  no  aitistic  considerations  whatever  neefr  prevent  me  from 
repairing.  You  cannot  think  how  divine  she  was  in  Juliet  the  other 
night.  Imperfect  and  harsh,  of  course,  here  and  there,  but  still  a 
creature  to  build  many  and  great  hopes  upon,  if  ever  there  was  one. 
She  is  shaking  off  trick  after  trick;  your  brother-in-law  is  merciless 
to  them  whenever  they  appear,  and  she  is  forever  working  with  a 
view  to  his  approval,  and  also,  I think,  from  two  or  three  things  she 
has  said,  with  a memory  of  that  distant  standard  of  criticism  which 
she  believes  to  be  embodied  in  you! 

“ M.  de  Ch&teauvieux  has  devoted  himself  to  her;  it  is  a pretty 
sight  to  see  them  together.  \ our  sister  and  she,  too,  are  inseparable, 
and  Madame  de  Chateauvieux’s  quiet,  equable  refinement  makes  a 
good  contrast  to  Miss  Bretherton ’s  mobility.  She  will  never  lose  the 
imprint  of  her  friendship  with  these  tw'o  people;  it  wras  a happy 
thought  which  led  you  to  bring  them  together. 

“ Well,  we  went  to  Torcello,  and  I watched  tor  an  opportunity  of 
getting  her  alone.  At  last  Madame  de  Chateauvieux  gave  me  one; 
she  carried  oft  her  husband,  Ruskin  in  hand,  to  study  the  mosaics, 
and  Miss  Bretherton  and  7 were  left  sitting  under  the  outer  wall  of 
San  Fosca  till  they  should  come  back.  We  had  been  talking  of  a 
hundred  things — not  of  acting  at  all;  of  the  pomegranates,  of  which 
she  had  a scarlet  mass  in  her  lap,  of  the  gray  slumberous  warmth 
of  the  day,  or  the  ragged  children  who  pestered  us  for  coppers— and 
then  suddenly,  1 asked  her  whether  she  would  answer  me  a personal 
question:  W as  there  any  grudge  in  her  mind  toward  me  for  anything 
1 had  said  and  done  in  London,  or  caused  others  to  say  and  do  for 
me? 

“ She  was  much  startled,  and  colored  a good  deal,  but  she  said 
very  steadily:  'I  feel  no  sort  of  grudge;  1 never  had  any  cause.’ 

‘ Well,  then,’  1 w7enl  on,  throwing  myself  down  on  the  grass  before 
her  that  1 might  really  see  her  expression,  ‘ if  you  bear  me  no 
grudge,  it  you  feel  kindly  toward  me,  will  you  help  me  to  undo  a 
great  mistake  of  mine?’ 

“ She  looked  at  me  with  parted  lips  and  eyes  which  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  find  out  from  my  face  what  1 meant.  “ Will  you,”  I 
said,  hurrying  on,  “ will  you  take  from  me  ‘ Elvira,’  and  do  what 
you  like  with  it?”  And  then,  do  you  know  what  happened?  Her 
lips  quivered,  and  1 thought  she  was  on  the  point  of  tears,  but  sud- 
denly the  nervousness  of  each  of  us  seemed  to  strike  the  other,  and 


MISS  BRETHERTON.  73 

we  both  laughed— she  long  and  helplessly,  as  if  she  could  not  help 
herself. 

“ Presently  she  looked  up,  with  her  great  eyes  swimming  m tears, 
and  tried  to  impress  on  me  that  I was  speaking  hastily,  that  1 bad 
an  ideal  for  that  play  she  could  never  promise  to  reach,  that  it  was 
my  friendship  for  her  that  made  me  change  my  mind,  that  there 
might  be  practical  difficulties  now  that  so  many  arrangements  had 
been  made,  and  so  on.  But  1 would  not  listen  to  her.  1 had  it  all 
ready;  I had  an  actor  to  propose  to  her  for  Macias,  and  even  the 
costumes  in  my  mind,  ready  to  sketch  tor  her,  if  need  were.  Forbes, 
1 suggested,  might  and  would  direct  the  setting  of  the  piece;  no  one 
could  do  it  with  more  perfect  knowledge  or  a more  exquisite  taste; 
and  for  her,  as  we  both  knew,  he  would  turn  scene-painter,  if  neces- 
sary. And  so  1 rambled  on,  soothing  her  shaken  feeling  and  my 
own  until  she  had  let  me  beguile  her  out  of  her  attitude  of  reluctance 
and  shrinking  into  one  at  least  of  common  interest. 

“ But  by  the  time  the  others  came  back  1 had  not  got  a direct 
consent  out  of  her,  and  all  the  way  home  she  was  very  silent.  1,  of 
course,  got  anxious,  and  began  to  think  that  my  blunder  had  been 
irreparable;  but,  at  any  rate,  I was  determined  not  to  let  the  thing 
linger  on.  So  that,  when  the  Chateauvieux  asked  me  to  stay  and 
sup  with  them  and  her,  1 supped,  and  afterward  in  the  garden  "bold- 
ly brought  it  out  before  them  all,  and  appealed  to  your  sister  for 
help.  1 knew  that  both  she  and  her  husband  were  acquainted  with 
what  had  happened  at  Oxford,  and  1 supposed  that  Miss  Bretherton 
would  know  that  they  were,  so  that  it  was  awkward  enough. 
Only  that  women,  when  they  please,  have  such  tact,  such  an  art  of 
smoothing  over  and  ignoring  the  rough  places  of  life,  that  one  often 
with  them  gets  through  a difficult  thing  without  realizing  how  diffi- 
cult it  is.  M.  de  CMteauvieux  smoked  a long  time  and  said  noth- 
ing, then  he  asked  me  a great  many  qestulons  about  the  play,  and 
finally  gave  no  opinion.  1 was  almost  in  despair— she  said  so  little 
— until,  just  as  1 was  going  away  with  ‘ Elvira’s  ’ fate  still  quite 
unsettled,  she  said  to  me  with  a smile  and  a warm  pressure  of  the 
hand,  ‘ To-morrow  come  and  see  me,  and  I will  tell  you  yes  or 
no!’ 

“ And  to-day  1 have  been  to  see  her,  and  the  night  has  brought 
good  luck!  For  ‘Elvira,’  my  dear  Kendal,  will  be  produced^on 
or  about  the  20th  of  November,  in  this  year  of  grace,  and  Isabel 
Bretherton  will  play  the  heroine,  and  your  friend  is  already  plunged 
in  business,  and  aglow  with  hope  and  expectation.  How  1 wish — 
how  we  all  wish — that  you  were  here!  I feel  more  and  more  peni- 
tent toward  you.  It  was  you  wTho  gave  the  impulse  of  which  the 
results  are  ripening,  and  you  ought  to  be  here  with  us  now,  plac- 
ing in  the  body  that  friend’s  part  which  we  all  yield  you  so  readily 
in  spirit.  ‘ Tell  Mr.  Kendal,’  were  almost  hei  last  words  to  me, 

4 that  1 can  not  say  how7  much  I owe  to  his  influence  and  his  friend- 
ship. He  first  opened  my  ey’es  to  so  many  things.  He  was  so  kind 
to  me,  even  when  he  thought  least  of  me.  1 hope  1 shall  win  a 
word  of  praise  from  him  yet!’  There!  1 trust  that  will  rouse  a 
little  pleasant  conceit  in  you.  She  meant  it,  and  it  is  true.  1 must 
go  oft  and  w ork  at  many  things.  To-morrow  or  next  day,  after  some 
further  talk  with  her,  I shall  set  off  homeward,  look  up  Forbes  and 


74 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


begin  operations.  She  will  be  in  town  in  about  three  weeks  from 
now— as  you  know  she  is  going  to  stay  first  with  your  sister  in 
Paris— and  then  we  shall  have  liara  work  till  about  the  middle  of 
November,  when  1 suppose  the  plajr  will  be  produced.  This  will 
be  more  than  a fortnight  later  tlian  she  intended  to  open,  and  Mr. 
Worrall  will  probably  be  furious  over  the  delay,  but  she  lias  devel- 
oped a will  of  her  own  lately7". 

“ Au  rewir  then.  You  must  have  had  a peaceful  summer  with 
your  books  and  your  heather.  I wish  1 had  anything  like  the  same 
digestion  for  work  that  yon  have;  I never  saw  a man  get  as  much 
pleasure  out  of  liis  books  as  you  do.  To  me,  1 confess,  that  work 
is  always  work,  and  idleness  a joy! 

1 * 4 However,  no  more  idleness  for  me  for  a good  while  to  come. 

How  grand  she  will  be  in  that  last  act!  Where  were  my  eyes  last 
♦spring?  1 wish  there  were  a chance  of  her  seeing  much  that  is  in- 
teresting in  Paris.  However,  flat  as  September  generally  is,  she 
will  get  some  Moliere  at  the  ‘Frangais,’  and  your  sister  will  take 
care  that  she  sees  the  right  people.  Peirault,  1 hear,  is  to  give  her 
lessons — under  the  rose.  Happy  man!” 

Kendal  read  this  letter  on  a glowing  August  morning  as  he  walked 
homeward  along  the  side  of  the  pond,  where  the- shade  of  the  fir- 
trees  was  a welcome  protection  against  the  rising  heat,  and  the  air 
was  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  the  ling,  which  was  just  out  in  all  its 
first  faint  flush  of  beauty.  He  threw  himself  down  among  it  after 
he  had  finished  the  sheets,  and  stared  for  long  at  the  sunlit  motion- 
less water,  his  hat  drawn  forward  over  his  brows.  So  this  was  the 
outcome  of  it  all.  Isabel  Bretherton  was  about  to  become  a great 
actress — Undine  had  found  her  soul! 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  lay  there  buried  in  the  ling,  that  during 
the  past  three  weeks  he  had  lived  through  a whole  drama  of  feeling 
— a drama  which  had  its  beginning,  its  complications,  its  climax. 
While  it  had  been  going  on  he  had  been  only  half -conscious  of  its 
bearings,  half  conscious  of  himself.  Wallace  s letter  had  made  him 
sensible  of  the  situation,  as  it  concerned  himself,  with  a decisive 
sharpness  and  completeness.  There  was  no  possibility  of  any 
further  self-delusion:  the  last  defenses  were  overcome,  the  last  veil 
between  himself  and  the  pursuing  force  which  had  overtaken  him 
had  fallen,  and  Kendal,  with  a shiver  of  pain,  found  himself  look- 
ing straight  into  the  wide,  hungry  eyes  of  Love!  Oh,  was  this  love 
—this  sore  desire,  this  dumb  craving,  this  restlessness  of  the  whole 
being? 

The  bees  hummed  among  the  heather,  every  now  and  then  a little 
brown-streaked  lizard  rustled  faintly  beside  him,  a pair  of  kingfishers 
flashed  across  the  pond.  But  he  saw  and  heard  nothing,  responsive 
as  every  sense  in  him  commonly  was  to  the  details  ol  the  wild  life 
about  him.  His  own  miserable  reverie  absorbed  him.  What  was 
it  that  had  made  the  charm  of  those  early  weeks  in  July  immediate- 
ly after  his  parting  with  her?  What  was  it  which  had  added  zest  to 
his  work,  and  enchantment  to  the  summer  beauty  of  the  country, 
and,  like  a hidden  harmony  dimly  resonant  within  him,  had  kept 
life  tuneful  and  delightful?  He  could  put  words  to  it  now.  It  had 
been  nothing  less  than  a settled  foresight,  a deep  conviction,  of 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


75 


Isabel  Bvetlierton' s failure  ! What  a treachery!  But  yes — the  vision 
perpetually  before  his  eyes  had  been  the  vision  of  a dying  fame,  a 
waning  celebrity,  a forsaken  and  discrowned  beauty!  And  from 
that  abandonment  and  that  failure  he  had  dimly  foreseen  the  rise 
and  upspringing  of  new  and  indescribable  joy.  He  had  seen  her, 
conscious  of  defeat  and  of  the  inexorable  limits  of  her  own  person- 
ality, turning  to  the  man  who  had  read  her  truly  and  yet  had  loved 
her,  surely,  from  the  very  beginning,  and  finding  in  his  love  a fresh 
glory  and  an  all-sufficient  consolation.  This  had  been  the  inmost 
truth,  the  center,  the  kernel  of  all  his  thought,  of  all  his  life.  He 
saw  it  now  with  sharp  distinctness — now  that  every  perception  was 
intensified  by  pain  and  longing. 

Then,  as  he  went  over  the  past,  he  saw  how  this  consciousness 
had  been  gradually  invaded  and  broken  up  by  his  sister’s  letters. 
He  remembered  the  incredulous  impatience  with  which  he  had  read 
the  earlier  ones.  So,  Marie  thought  him  mistaken!  “ Isabel  Breth- 
erton  would  be  an  actress  }Tet  ” — “ she  had  genius,  after  all  ” — 
“she  was  learning,  growing,  developing  every  day.”  Absurd! 
He  had  been  able  to  keep  his  critical  estimate  of  the  actress  and  his 
personal  admiration  of  the  woman  separate  from  one  another.  But 
evidently  Marie'S  head  had  been  confused,  misled,  by  her  heart.  And 
then,  little  by  little,  his  incredulity  had  yielded,  and  his  point  of 
view  had  changed.  Instead  of  impatience  of  Marie's  laxity  of  judg- 
ment, what  he  had  been  fiercely  conscious  of  for  days  was  jealousy 
of  Paul  de  Chateauvieux — jealousy  of  his  opportunities,  his  influ- 
ence, his  relation  toward  that  keen  sweet  nature.  That,  too,  had 
been  one  of  his  dreams  of  the  future — the  dream  of  tutoring  and 
training  her  young  unformed  intelligence.  He  had  done  something 
towaid  it;  he  had,  as  it  were,  touched  the  spring  which  had  set  free 
all  this  new  and  unexpected  store  of  power.  But,  if  he  had  planted, 
others  had  watered,  and  others  would  reap.  In  this  great  crisis  of 
her  fortunes  he  had  been  nothing  to  her.  Other  voices  and  other 
hands  had  guided  and  directed  her.  Her  kindly,  grateful  messages 
only  stung  and  tortured  him.  They  seemed  to  him  the  merest 
friendly  commonplace.  In  reality  her  life  U*id  passed  out  of  his 
ken;  her  nature  had  flowered  into  a new  perfection,  and  he  had  not 
bet  n there  to  see  or  to  help.  She  would  never  counect  him  with  the 
incidents  or  the  influences  which  had  transformed  existence  to  her, 
and  would  probably  irrevocably  change  the  whole  outline  of  her 
future.  Once  he  had  wounded  and  startled  her,  and  had  despaired 
for  awhile  of  undoing  the  impression  made  upon  her.  But  now  he 
felt  no  quick  anxiety,  no  fear  how  things  might  turn,  only  a settled 
flat  consciousness  of  division,  of  a life  that  had  once  been  near  to 
his  swept  #away  from  him  forever,  of  diverging  roads  which  no 
kindly  fate  would  ever  join  again. 

For,  by  the  end  of  this  time  of  solitary  waiting,  his  change  of  at- 
titude was  complete.  It  was  evident  to  him  that  nis  anticipation  of 
her  failure,  potent  as  it  had  been  over  his  life,  had  never  been  half 
so  real,  half  so  vivid,  as  this  new  and  strange  foreboding  of  her  true 
success  Marie  must  be  right.  He  had  been  a mere  blind  hair- 
splitting pedant,  judging  Isabel  Bretherton  by  principles  and  stand- 
ards which  left  out  of  count  the  inborn  energy,  the  natural  power 
of  growth,  of  such  a personality  as  hers.  And  the  more  he  had 


76 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


once  doubted  the  more  he  now  believed.  Yes,  she  would  be  great 
—she  would  make  her  way  into  that  city  of  the  mind,  in  which  he 
himself  had  made  his  dwelling-place;  she,  too,  would  enter  upon 
the  world’s  vast  inheritance  of"  knowledge.  She  would  become,  if 
only  her  physical  frame  proved  equal  to  the  demands  upon  it,  one 
of  that  little  band  of  interpreters,  of  ministers  of  the  idea,  by  whom 
the  intellectual  life  of  a society  is  fed  and  quickened.  Was  he  so 
lost  in  his  own  selfish  covetous  need  as  not  to  rejoice? 

Oh,  but  she  was  a woman,  she  was  beautiful,  and  he  loved  her! 
Do  what  he  would,  all  ideal  and  impersonal  considerations  fell 
utterly  away  from  him.  Day  by  day  he  knew  more  of  his  own 
heart;  day  by  day  the  philosopher  grew  weaker  in  him,  and  the 
man's  claim  fiercer.  Before  him  perpetually  were  two  figures  of  a 
most  human  and  practical  reality.  He  saw  a great  actress,  absorbed 
in  the  excitement  of  the  most  stimulating  of  lives,  her  power  ripen- 
ing from  year  to  year,  her  fame  growing  and  widening  with  time; 
and  beside  this  brilliant  vision  he  saw  himself,  the  quiet  man  of  let- 
ters, with  the  enthusiasms  of  youth  behind  him,  the  calm  of  mid- 
dle-age before  him.  What  possible  link  could  there  be  between 
them? 

At  last  Wallace’s  letter  cleared  still  further  the  issues  of  the  con- 
flict; or  rather,  it  led  to  Kendal’s  making  a fatalist  compact  with 
himself.  He  was  weary  of  the  struggle,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  must  somehow  or  other  escape  from  the  grip  in  which  his  life 
was  held.  He  must  somehow  deaden  this  sense,  this  bitter  sense  of 
loss,  if  it  were  only  by  postponing  the  last  renunciation.  He  would 
go  back  to  his  work  and  force  himself  not  to  hate  it.  It  was  his 
only  refuge,  and  he  must  cling  to  it  for  dear  life.  And  he  would 
not  see  her  again  till  the  night  of  the  first  performance  of  “ Elvira.” 
She  would  be  in  London  in  a month’s  time,  but  be  would  take  care 
to  be  out  of  reach.  He  would  not  meet  those  glorious  eyes  or  touch 
that  hand  again  till  the  die  was  cast — upon  the  fate  of  “ Elvira  ” he 
staked  his  own.  The  decision  brought  him  a strange  kind  of  peace, 
and  he  went  back  to  his  papers  and  his  books  like  a man  who  has 
escaped  from  the  grasp  of  some  deadly  physical  ill  into  a period  of 
comparative  ease  and  relief. 


CHAPTER  Vll. 

It  was  a rainy  November  night.  A soft  continuous  downpour 
was  soaking  the  London  streets,  without,  however,  affecting  their 
animation  or  the  nocturnal  brightness  of  the  capital,  for  the  brill- 
» iance  of  the  gas-lamps  was  flashed  back  from  innumerable  patches 
of  water,  and  every  ray  of  light  seemed  to  be  broken  by  the  rain 
into  a hundred  shimmering  reflections.  It  was  the  hour  when  all  the 
society  of  which  an  autumnal  Lundon  can  boast  is  in  the  streets, 
hurrying  to  its  dinner  or  its  amusements,  and  when  the  stream  of 
diners-out,  flowing  through  the  different  channels  of  the  west,  is  met 
in  all  the  great  thoroughfares  by  the  stream  of  theater-goers  setting 
eastward. 

The  western  end  of  D—  Street  was  especially  crowded,  and  so  was 
the  entrance  to  a certain  narrow  street  leading  northward  from  it, 
in  which  stood  the  new  bare  buildings  of  the  Calliope.  Outside  the 


MISS  BRETHEItTOK. 


77 


theater  itself  Ihere  was  a dense  mass  of  carriages  and  human  beings, 
only  kept  in  order  by  the  active  vigilance  of  the  police,  and  waver- 
ing to  and  fro  with  kaleidoscopic  rapidity.  The  line  of  carriages 
seemed  interminable,  and  after  those  who  emerged  from  them  bad 
run  the  gantlet  of  the  dripping,  curious,  good-tempered  multitude 
outside,  they  had  to  face  the  sterner  ordeal  of  the  struggling  well- 
dressed  crowd  within,  surging  up  the  double  staircase  of  the  newly- 
decorated  theater.  The  air  inside  was  full  of  the  hum  of  talk,  and 
the  whole  crowTd  had  a homogeneous,  almost  a family  air,  as  though 
the  contents  of  one  great  London  salon  had  bem  poured  into  the 
theater.  Everybody  seemed  to  know  everybody  else;  there  were 
politicians,  and  artists,  and  writers  of  books,  known  and  unknown; 
there  were  fair  women  and  wise  women  and  great  ladies;  and  there 
was  that  large  substratum  of  faithful,  but  comparatively  nameless, 
persons  on  wrhom  a successful  manager  learns  to  depend  with  some 
confidence  on  any  first  night  of  importance. 

And  this  was  a first  night  of  exceptional  interest.  So  keen,  in- 
deed, had  been  the  competition  for  tickets  that  many  of  those  pres- 
ent had  as  vague  and  confused  an  idea  of  how  they  came  lo  be 
among  the  favored  multitude  pouring  into  the  Calliope  as  a man  in  a 
street  panic  has  of  the  devices  by  which  he  has  struggled  past  the 
barrier  which  has  overthrown  his  neighbor.  Miss  Bretherton’s  first 
appearance  in  “ Elvira  ” had  been  the  subject  of  conversation  for 
weeks  past  among  a far  larger  number  of  London  circles  than  gen- 
erally concern  themselves  with  theatrical  affairs.  Among  those  which 
might  be  said  to  be  within  a certain  literary  and  artistic  circumfer- 
ence, people  were  able  to  give  definite  grounds  f-or  the  public  inter- 
est. The  play,  it  was  said,  was  an  unusually  good  one,  and  the 
progress  of  the  rehearsals  had  let  loose  a flood  of  rumors  lo  the  effect 
that  Miss  Bretherton’s  acting  in  it  wTould  be  a great  surprise  to  the 
public.  Further,  from  the  intellectual  center  ot  things,  it  was  only 
known  that  the  famous  beauty  had  returned  to  the  scene  of  her  tri- 
umphs; and  that  now,  as  in  the  season,  one  of  the  first  articles  of 
the  social  decalogue  laid  it  down  as  necessary  that  you  should,  first 
oi  all.  see  her  in  the  theater,  and,  secondly,  know  her  — by  fair 
means  if  possible,  it  not,  by  crooked  ones— in  society. 

It  was  nearly  a quarter  to  eight.  The  orchestra  had  taken  their 
places,  and  almost  every  seat  was  full.  In  one  ot  the  dress-circle 
boxes  sat  three  people  who  had  arrived  early,  and  had  for  some  time 
employed  themselves  in  making  a study  of  the  incoming  stream 
through  their  opera  glasses.  They  were  Eustace  Kendal,  his  sister, 
Madame  de  Chateauvieux,  and  her  husband.  The  Ch&teauvieux 
had  traveled  over  from  Paris  expressly  for  the  occasion,  and 
Madame  de  Chateauvieux,  her  gray-blue  eyes  sparkling  with  expec- 
tation and  all  her  small  delicate  features  alive  with  interest  and  ani- 
mation, was  wratching  for  the  rising  ot  the  heavy  velvet  curtain  with 
an  eagerness  which  brought  down  upon  her  ihe  occasional  mockery 
of  her  husband,  who  was  in  reality,  however,  little  less  excited  than 
herself.  It  was  but  three  weeks  since  they  had  parted  with  Isabel 
Bretherton  in  Paris,  and  they  were  feeling  on  this  first  night  some- 
thing of  the  anxiety  and  responsibility  which  parents  feel  when 
they  launch  a child  upon  whom  they  have  expended  their  best  efforts 
into  a critical  w orld. 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


78 

As  for  Enstace,  he  also  had  but  that  afternoon  arrived  in  London. 
He  had  been  paying  a long  duty-visit  to  some  aged  relatives  in  the 
north,  and  had  so  lengthened  it  out,  in  accordance  with  the  whim 
which  had  taken  possession  of  him  in  Surrey,  that  he  had  missed 
all  the  preparations  for  “Elvira,”  and  had  arrived  upon  the  scene 
only  at  the  moment  when  the  final  coup  was  to  be  delivered.  Miss 
Bretherton  had  herself  sent  him  a warm  note  of  invitation,  contain- 
ing an  order  for  the  first  night  and  an  appeal  to  him  to  come  and 
“ judge  me  as  kindly  as  truth  will  let  you.”  And  he  had  answered 
her  that,  whatever  happened,  he  would  be  in  his  place  in  the  Calliope 
on  the  night  of  the  20th  of  November. 

And  now  here  he  was,  wearing  outwardly  precisely  the  same  as- 
pect of  interested  expectation  as  those  around  him,  and  all  the  time  1 
conscious  inwardly  that  to  him  alone,  of  all  the  human  beings  in 
that  vast  theater,  the  experience  of  the  evening  would  be  so  vitally 
and  desperately  important,  that  life  on  the  other  side  of  it  would 
bear  the  mark  of  it  forever.  It  was  a burden  to  him  that  his  sister 
suspected  nothing  of  his  state  of  feeling;  it  would  have  consoled 
him  that  she  should  know  it,  but  it  seemed  to  him  impossible  to  tell 
her. 

“ There  are  the  Stuarts,”  he  said,  bending  down  to  her  as  the  or- 
chestra struck  up,  “ in  the  box  to  the  left.  Forbes,  1 suppose,  will 
join  them  when  it  begins.  1 am  told  he  has  been  working  like  a 
horse  for  this  play.  Eveiy  detail  in  it,  they  say,  is  perfect,  artistic- 
ally and  historically,  and  the  time  of  preparation  has  been  exception- 
ally short.  Why  did  she  refuse  to  begin  again  with  the  ‘ White 
Lady,’  to  give  herself  more  time?” 

**  I cannot  tell  you,  except  that  she  had  a repugnance  to  it  which 
could  not  be  got  over.  1 believe  her  associations  with  the  play  were 
so  painful  that  it  would  have  seemed  an  evil  omen  to  her  to  begin 
a new  season  with  it.” 

“ Was  she  wise,  I wonder?” 

“ I think  she  did  well  to  follow  her  fancy  in  the  matter,  and  she 
herselt  has  had  plenty  of  time.  She  was  working  at  it  all  the  weeks 
she  was  with  us,  and  young  Harting  too,  1 think,  had  notice 
enough.  Some  of  the  smaller  parts  may  go  roughly  to-night,  but 
they  will  soon  tall  into  shape.” 

“ Poor  Wallace!”  said  Kendal;  “ he  must  be  wishing  it  well  over. 

1 never  saw  a house  better  stocked  with  critics.” 

“Here  he  is,”  cried  Madame  de  Ohateauvieux,  betraying  her  sup- 
pressed excitement  in  her  nervous  little  start.  “ Oh,  Mr.  Wallace, 
how  do  you  do?  and  how  are  things  going?” 

Poor  Wallace  threw  himself  into  his  seat,  looking  the  picture  of 
misery  so  far  as  his  face,  which  Nature  had  molded  in  one  of  her 
cheertulest  moods,  was  capable  of  it. 

“ My  dear  Madame  de  Ohateauvieux,  I have  no  more  notion  than 
the  man  in  the  moon.  Miss  Bretherton  is  an  angel,  and  without 
Forbes  we  should  have  collapsed  a hundred  times  already,  and 
that’s  about  all  1 know.  As  for  the  other  actors,  I suppose  they 
will  get  through  their  parts  somehow,  but  at  present  1 feel  like  a 
man  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows.  There  goes  the  bell;  now  for  it.” 
The  sketch  for  the  plav  of  “Elvira  ” had  been  found  among  the 
papers  of  a young  penniless  Italian  who  had  died,  almost  of  starva* 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


79 


tkm,  in  liis  Roman  garret,  during  those  teeming  years  after  18B0, 
when  poets  grew  on  every  hed<re  and  the  romantic  passion  was 
abroad.  Tne  sketch  had  appeared  in  a little  privately  printed  vol- 
ume which  Edward  Wallace  had  picked  up  by  chance  on  the  Paris 
quays.  He  had  read  it  in  an  idle  hour  in  a railway,  had  seen  its 
capabilities,  and  had  forthwith  set  to  work  to  develop  the  sketch 
into  a play.  But,  in  developing  it,  he  had  carefully  preserved  the 
character  ol  the  oiiginal  conception.  It  was  a conception  strictly  of 
the  Romantic  time,  and  the  execution  of  it  presented  very  little  of 
that  variety  of  tone  which  modern  audiences  have  learned  to  expect. 
The  play  told  one  rapid,  breathless  story  of  love,  jealousy,  despair,  and 
death,  and  it  told  it  directly  and  uninterruptedly,  without  any  lighter 
interl  udes.  Author  and  adapter  alike  had  trusted  entirely  to  the  t ragic 
force  of  the  situation  and  the  universality  of  the  motives  appealed 
to.  The  diction  of  the  piece  was  the  diction  of  Alfred  de  Vigny 
or  of  the  school  of  Victor  Hugo.  It  was,  indeed,  rather  a dramatic 
love-poem  than  a play,  in  the  modern  sense,  and  it  depended  alto- 
gether for  its  success  upon  the  two  chaiacters  of  Macias  and  Elvira. 

In  devising  the  character  of  Macias  the  Italian  author  had  made 
use  of  a traditional  Spanish  type,  which  has  its  historical  sources, 
and  has  inspired  many  a Spanish  poet  from  the  fifteenth  century 
downward.  Macias  is  knight,  poet,  and  lover;  his  love  is  a kind  of 
Southern  madness  which  withers  every  other  feeling  in  its  neighbor- 
hood, and  his  tragic  death  is  the  only  natural  ending  to  a career  so 
fierce  .and  uncontrolled.  Elvira,  with  whom  Macias  is  in  love,  the 
daughter  of  Nuno  Fernandez,  is  embodied  gentleness  and  virtue, 
until  the  fierce  progress  of  her  fate  has  taught  her  that  men  are 
treacherous  and  the  world  cruel.  For  her  love  had  been  prosperous 
and  smooth,  until  by  a series  of  events  it  had  been  brought  into  an- 
tagonism with  two  opposing  interests — those  of  her  father  and  of  a 
certain  Fernan  Perez,  the  tool  and  favorite  of  the  powerful  Duke  of 
Viilena.  The  ambition  and  selfish  passion  of  these  two  men  are 
enlisted  against  her.  Perez  is  determined  to  many  her;  her  father 
is  determined  to  sweep  Macias  out  of  the  path  of  his  own  political 
advancement.  The  intrigue  devised  between  the  two  is  perfectly 
successful.  Macias  is  enliced  away;  Elvira,  forced  to  believe  that 
she  is  deserted  and  betrayed,  is  half  driven,  half  entrapped,  into  a 
marriage  with  Perez;  and  Macias,  returning  to  claim  her  against  a 
hundred  obstacles,  meets  the  wedding  party  on  their  way  back  to  tli6 
palace  of  the  Duke. 

The  rest  of  the  play  represented,  of  course,  the  struggle  between 
the  contending  forces  thus  developed.  In  plan  and  mechanism  the 
story  was  one  of  a common  romantic  type,  neither  better  nor  worse 
than  hundreds  of  others  of  which  the  literary  archives  of  the  first 
half  of  the  present  century  are  full.  It  required  all  the  aid  that  fine 
literary  treatment  could  give  it  to  raise  it  above  the  level  of  vulgar 
jnelodiama  and  turn  it  into  tragedy.  But  fortune  had  been  kina  to 
it;  the  subject  had  been  already  handled  in  the  Italian  sketch  with 
delicacy  and  a true  tragic  insight,  and  Edward  Wallace  had  brought 
all  the  resources  of  a very  evenly-trained  and  critical  mind  to  bear 
upon  his  task.  It  coukl  hardly  have  been  foreseen  that  he  would  be 
attracted  by  the  subject,  but  ofice  at  work  upon  it  he  had  worked 
with  enthusiasm. 


80 


MISS  BKETHERTOSh 


The  curtain  drew  up  on  the  great  hall  of  the  Villena  Palace. 
Everything  that  antiquarian  knowledge  could  do  had  been  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  surroundings  of  the  scene;  the  delicate  tile- work  o i 
the  walls  and  floor,  the  leather  hangings,  the  tapestries,  the  carved 
wood  and  brass  work  of  a Spanish  palace  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
had  been  copied  with  lavish  magnificence;  and  the  crowded  expect- 
ant house  divided  its  attention  and  applause  during  the  first  scene 
between  the  beauty  and  elaboration  of  its  setting,  and  the  play  of  the 
two  tolerable  actors  who  represented  Elvira’s  father  and  the  rival  of 
Macias,  Feinan  Perez. 

Fern  an  Perez,  having  set  the  intrigue  on  foot  which  is  to  wreck 
the  love  of  Macias  and  Elvira,  had  just  risen  from  his  seat,  when 
Wallace,  who  was  watching  the  stage  in  a torment  of  mingled  satis- 
faction and  despair,  touched  Madame  de  CMteauvieux’s  arm. 

“ Now  /”  he  said.  “ That  door  to  the  left” 

Kendal,  catching  the  signal,  rose  from  his  seat  behind  Madame  de 
CMteauvieux  and  bent  forward.  The  great  door  at  the  end  of  the 
palace  had  slowly  opened,  and  gliding  through  it  with  drooping 
head  and  hands  clasped  before  her  came  Elvira,  followed  by  her 
little  maid  Beatrix.  The  storm  which  greeted  her  appearance  was 
such  as  thrilled  the  pulses  of  the  oldest  habitue  in  the  theater  Tears 
came  to  Madame  de  Chateauvieux’s  eyes,  and  she  looked  up  at  her 
brother. 

“ What  a scene!  It  is  overpowering — it  is  too  much  for  her!  I 
wish  they  would  let  her  go  on !” 

Kendal  made  her  no  answer,  his  soul  was  in  his  eyes;  he  had  no 
senses  for  any  but  one  person.  She  was  there,  wfilhin  a few  yards 
of  him,  in  all  the  sovereignty  of  her  beautj'  and  her  fame,  invested 
with  the  utmost  romance  that  circumstances  could  bestow,  and 
about,  if  half  he  heard  were  true,  to  reap  a great  artistic,  no  less  than 
a great  personal  triumph.  Had  he  felt  toward  her  onty  as  the 
public  felt  it  would  have  been  an  experience  beyond  the  common 
run,  and  as  it  was— oh,  this  aching,  intolerable  sense  of  desire,  of 
separation,  of  irremediable  need!  Was  that  her  voice?  He  had 
heard  that  tone  of  despair  in  it  before— under  over-arching  woods, 
when  the  June  warmth  was  in  the  air!  That  white  outstretched 
hand  had  once  lain  close  clasped  in  his  own;  those  eyes  had  once 
looked  with  a passionate  trouble  into  his.  Ah,  it  was  gone  forever* 
nothing  would  ever  recall  it— that  one  quick  moment  of  living  con- 
tact! In  a deeper  sense  than  met  the  ear,  she  was  on  the  stage  and 
he  among  the  audience.  To  the  end  his  gray  life  would  play  the 
part  of  spectator  to  hers,  or  else  she  would  soon  have  passed  beyond 
his  grasp  and  touch,  just  as  Elvira  would  have  vanished  in  a little 
while  from  the  sight  of  the  great  audience  which  now  hung  upon 
her  every  movement. 

Then  from  the  consciousness  of  his  own  private  smait  he  was 
swept  out,  whether  he  would  or  no,  into  the  general  current  of  feel 
ing  which  was  stirring  the  multitude  of  human  beings  around  him* 
and  he  found  himself  gradually  mastered  by  considerations  of  a 
different  order  altogether.  Was  this  the  actress  he  had  watched 
with  such  incessant  ciitical  revolt  six  months  before?  Was  this  the 
hall-educated  girl  grasping  at  results  utterly  beyond  her  realization, 
whom  he  remembered? 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


81 


It  seemed  to  him  impossible  that  this  quick  artistic  intelligence, 
this  nervous  understanding  of  the  demands  made  upon  her,  this 
faculty  in  meeting  them,  could  have  been  developed  by  the  same 
Isabel  Bretherton  whose  earlier  image  was  so  distinctly  graven  on 
his  memory.  And  yet  his  trained  eye  learned  after  a while  to  de- 
cipher in  a hundred  indications  the  past  history  of  the  change.  He 
saw  how  she  had  worked,  and  where;  the  influences  which  had 
been  brought  to  bear  upon  her  were  all  familiar  to  him;  they  had 
had  been  part  of  his  own  training,  and  they  belonged,  as  he  knew, 
to  the  first  school  of  dramatic  art  in  Europe — to  the  school  which 
keeps  alive  from  generation  to  generation  the  excellence  and  fame 
of  the  best  French  drama.  He  came  to  estimate  by  degrees  all  that 
she  had  done;  he  saw  also  all  she  had  still  1o  do.  In  the  spring  she 
had  been  an  actress  without  a future,  condemned  by  the  inexorable 
logic  of  things  to  see  her  fame  desert  her  with  the  first  withering  of 
her  beauty.  Now  she  had,  as  it  were,  but  started  toward  her  right- 
ful goal,  but  her  feet  were  in  the  great  high-road,  and  Kendal  saw 
before  hei,  if  she  had  but  strength  to  reach  it,  the  very  highest 
summit  of  artistic  success. 

The  end  of  the  first  act  was  reached;  Elvira,  returning  from  the 
performance  of  the  marriage  ceremony  in  the  chapel  of  the  palace, 
had  emerged  hand-in-hand  with  her  husband,  and,  followed  by  her 
wedding  train,  upon  the  great  hall.  She  had  caught  sight  of  Macias 
standing  blanched  and  tottering  under  the  weight  of  the  incredible 
news  which  had  just  been  given  to  him  by  the  Duke.  She  had 
flung  .away  the  hatelul  hand  which  held  her,  and,  with  a cry,  in- 
stinct with  the  sharp  and  terrible  despair  of  youth,  she  had  thrown 
herself  at  the  feet  of  her  lover. 

When  the  curtain  fell,  Edward  Wallace  could  have  had  few 
doubts— if  he  had  ever  cherished  any — of  the  success  of  his  play. 
He  himself  escaped  behind  the  scenes  as  soon  as  Miss  Bretherton’s 
last  recall  was  over,  and  the  box  was  filled  in  his  absence  with  a 
stream  of  friends,  and  a constant  murmur  of  congratulation,  which 
was  music  in  the  eais  of  Madame  de  CMteauvieux,  and,  for  the 
moment,  silenced  in  Kendal  his  own  throbbing  and  desolate  con- 
sciousness. 

“ There  never  was  a holiday  turned  to  such  good  account  before,” 
a gray-haired  dramatic  critic  was  sa}dng  to  her,  a man  with  whose 
keen,  good-natured  face  London  had  been  familiar  for  the  last 
twenty  years.  “ What  magic  has  touched  the  beauty,  Madame  de 
Chateauvieux?  Last  spring  we  all  felt  as  though  one'fairy^god- 
motlier  at  least  had  been  left  out  at  the  christening.  And  now  it 
would  seem  as  though  even  she  had  repented  of  it,  and  brought  her 
gift  with  the  rest.  Well,  well,  I.  always  felt  there  was  something 
at  the  bottom  in  that  nature  that  might  blossom  yet.  Most  people 
who  are  younger  at  the  trade  than  1 would  not  hear  of  it.  It  was 
commoniy  agreed  that  her  success  would  last  just  as  long  as  the  first 
freshness  of  her  beauty,  and  no  more.  And  now — the  English  stage 
has  laid  its  hold  at  last  upon  a great  actress.” 

Madame  de  Ch&teauvieux’s  smiling  reply  was  bioken  by  the  re- 
appearance of  Wallace,  round  whom  the  buzz  of  congratulation 
closed  with  fresh  vigor. 


82 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


“How  is  she?”  askecl  Madame  de  Cliateauvieux,  laying  a hand 
on  his  arm.  “Tired?” 

“ .Not  the  least!  But,  oi  course,  all  the  strain  is  to  come.  It  is 
amazing,  you  know,  this  reception.  It’s  almost  more  trying  than 
the  acting.  Forbes  in  the  wings,  looking  on,  is  a play  in  himself!” 

In  another  minute  the  hubbub  had  swept  out  again,  and  the 
house  had  settled  into  silence. 

Macias  was  the  central  figure  of  the  second  act.  In  the  great 
scene  of  explanation  between  himself  and  Elvira,  after  he  had 
forced  his  way  into  her  apartment,  his  fury  of  jealous  sarcasm, 
broken  by  flashes  of  the  old  absolute  trust,  of  the  old  tender  wor- 
ship, had  been  finely  conceived,  and  was  well  rendered  by  the 
promising  young  actor,  whom  Wallace  had  himself  chosen  tor  the 
part.  Elvira,  overwhelmed  by  the  scorn  and  despair  of  her  lover, 
and,  conscious  of  the  treachery  which  has  separated  them,  is  yet 
full  of  a blind  resolve  to  play  the  part  she  has  assumed  to  the  bitter 
end,  to  save  her  own  name  and  her  father’s  from  dishonor,  and  to 
interpose  the  irrevocable  barrier  of  her  marriage  vow  between  heiself 
and  Macias.  Suddenly  they  are  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  the 
Duke  and  of  Fernan  Perez.  Elvira  throws  herself  between  her 
husband  and  her  lover,  and,  having  captured  the  sword  of  Macias, 
hands  it  to  the  Duke.  Macias  is  arrested  after  a tumultous  scene, 
and  is  led  away,  shaking  oft  Elvira’s  efforts  to  save  him  with  bitter 
contempt,  and  breaking  loose  from  her  with  the  prophecy  that  in 
every  joy  of  the  future  and  every  incident  of  her  wedded  life,  the 
specter  oi  his  murdered  love  will  rise  before  her,  and  “ every  echo 
and  every  breeze  repeat  the  fatal  name,  Macias.” 

During  the  rapid  give  and  take  of  this  trying  scene,  Kendal  saw 
with  a kind  of  incredulous  admiration  that  Isabel  Bretherton  never 
once  lost  herself,  that  every  gesture  was  true,  every  word  struck 
home.  Her  extraordinary  grace,  her  marvelous  beauty  were  all 
subordinated  to,  forgotten  almost  in  the  supreme  human  passion 
speaking  through  her.  Macias,  in  the  height  of  his  despair  while 
he  was  still  alone  with  her,  had  flung  her  his  sword,  declaring  that  he 
would  go  forth  and  seek  his  death  an  unarmed  and  defenseless 
man.  Then,  when  he  becomes  conscious  of  the  approach  of  his 
rival,  the  soldier’s  instinct  revives  in  him;  he  calls  tor  his  sword; 
she  refuses  it,  and  he  makes  a threatening  step  toward  her. 

Mac.  My  sword,  Elvira. 

Elmra.  Never! 

Beairiz.  Ah!  they  are  here.  It  is  too  late! 

Elmra.  Go!  No  blood  shall  flow  for  me.  Come  no  nearer— or  1 
sheathe  it  in  this  breast. 

All  the  desperate  energy  of  a loving  woman  driven  to  bay  was  in 
her  attitude  as  she  repelled  Macias,  whereas  in  the  agony  of  her  last 
clinging  appeal  to  him,  as  his  guards  lead  him  off,  every  trace  of 
her  "momentary  heroism  had  died  away,  Faint  and  trembling,  re- 
coiling from  every  harsh  -word  of  his  as  from  a blow,  she  had  fol- 
lowed him  toward  the  door,  and  in  her  straining  eyes  and  seeking, 
outstretched  hands  as  she  watched  him  disappear,  there  was  a pathos 
so  true,  so  poignant,  that  it  laid  a spell  upon  the  audience,  and  the 
curtain  fell  amid  a bieathless  silence,  which  made  the  roar  that  al- 
most instantly  followed  doubly  noticeable. 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


83 


But  it  was  in  the  third  act  that  she  won  her  highest  triumph. 
The  act  opened  with  a scene  between  Elvira  and  her  husband,  in 
which  she  implored  him,  with  the  humility  and  hopelessness  of 
e-riet  to  allow  her  to  retire  from’  the  world  and  to  hide  the  beauty 
fvldch  had  wrought  such  ruin  from  the  light  of  day  He,  in  whom 
jealousy  has  taken  fierce  root,  refuses  with  reproach  and  wail,  and 
in  the  full  tide  of  hi  r passionate  reaction  against  his  tyranny,  the 
news  is  brought  her  by  Beatriz  that  Fernan,  m his  determination  to 
avoid  the  duel  with  Macias  on  the  morrow,  which  the  Duke  in  ac- 
cordance with  knightly  usage,  has  been  foiced  to  grant  has  devised 
means  tor  assassinating  bis  rival  in  prison.  Naturally,  her  whole 
soul  is  thrown  into  an  effoit  to  save  her  lover.  She  bribes  his 
guards.  She  sends  Beatriz  to  denounce  the  treacheiy  of  her  hus- 
band to  the  Duke,  and,  finally,  she  herself  penetrates  into  the  cell 
of  Macias,  to  warn  him  of  the  fate  that  threatens  him  and  to  per 

8Ult  vvas  indeed,  a dramatic  moment  when  the  gloom  of  Macias  s 
cell  was  first  broken  by  the  glimmer  of  the  hand-lamp,  which  re- 
vealed to  the  vast  expectant  audience  the  form  of  Elvira 
on  the  threshold,  searching  the  darkness  with  hei  shaded  eyes,  and 
in  the  great  love  scene  which  followed  the  first  sharp  impression 
was  steadilv  deepened  word  byword  and  gesture  after  gesture  y 
the  genius  of  the  actress.  Elvira  finds  Macias  in  a mood  of  cairn 
and  even  joyful  waitiug  for  the  morrow.  His  honor  is  satisfied, 
death  and  battle  are  before  him  and  the  proud  Castilian  is  a.most  at 
peace  The  vision  of  Elvira’s  pale  beauty  and  his  quick  intuition 
of  the  dangers  she  lias  run  in  forcing  her  way  to  him  produce  a 
sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  toward  her,  a flood  of  passionate  recon- 
ciliation: he  is  at  her  feet  once  more;  he  feels  that  she  is  true,  that 
she  is  his  She.  in  a frenzy  of  fear,  can  not  succeed  for  all  hei  efforts 
in  dimming  his  ecstasy  of  joy  or  in  awakening  hun  to  the  necessity 
of  flight,  and  at  last  he  even  resents  her  terroi  for  him,  her  en- 
treaties that  he  will  forget  her  and  escape.  . 

'■  Great  Heavens!”  he  says,  turning  from  her  in  despaii,  it  was 
not  ,«ove,  it  was  only  pity  that  brought  her  here.’  Then,  broken 
down  by  tbe  awful  pressure  of  the  situation,  her  love  resists  his  no 
louver  but  rather  she  sees  in  the  full  expression  of  her  own  heart 
tbe  onlv  chance  of  reconciling  liim  to  life,  and  of  persuading  him  to 
take  thought  tor  his  own  safety,  . . , 

fflvifri  See,  Macias,  these  tears— each  one  is  yours,  is  wept  for 
vou'  Oh  if  to  soiten  that  proud  will  of  youis  this  hapless  woman 

must  needs  open  all  her  weak  heart  to  you,  it  she  niust  needs  tel 

vou  that  she  lives  only  in  your  life  and  dies  in  join  death,  her  p 
will  brace  itself  even  t<>  that  pitiful  confession!  Ah  me!  I hese pool 
cheeks  have  been  so  blanched  with  weeping,  they  have  no  bluslie* 
left. 

To  her  this  supre  me  avowal  is  the  only  means  of  making  him  believe 
her  report  of  his  danger,  and  turn  toward  flight ; but  in  him  it  pro- 
duces a joy  which  banishes  all  thought  of  peisonal  risk,  and  makes 
semration  from  her  worse  than  death.  When  she  bids  him  fly,  he 
replies  by  one  word,  “ Come!”  and  not  till  she  has  piomised  to 
guide  him  to  the  city  gates  and  to  follow  him  later  on  his  journey 


84 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


will  he  move  a step  toward  freedom.  And  then,  when  her  dear  hand 
is  about  to  open  to  him  the  door  of  his  prison,  it  is  too  late.  Fernan 
and  his  assassins  are  at  hand,  the  stairs  are  surrounded,  and  escape 
is  cut  off.  Again,  in  these  last  moments,  when  the  locked  door  still 
holds  between  them  and  the  death  awaiting  them,  her  mood  is  one 
of  agonized  terror,  not  for  herself,  but  for  him;  while  he,  exalted  far 
abDve  all  tear,  supports  and  calms  her. 

Macias.  Think  no  more  of  the  world  which  has  destroyed  us! 
We  owe  it  nothing — nothing!  Come,  the  bonds  which  linked  us  to 
it  are  forever  broken!  Death  is  at  the  door;  we  are  already  dead  ! 
Come,  and  make  death  beautiful:  tell  me  you  love,  love,  love  me  to 
the  end ! 

Then , putting  her  from  him,  he  goes  out  to  meet  his  enemies.  There 
is  a clamor  outside,  and  he  returns  wounded  to  death,  pursued  by 
Fernan  and  his  men.  He  falls,  and  Elvira  defends  him  lrom  her 
husband  with  a look  and  gesture  so  terrible  that  he  and  the  murder- 
ers fall  back  before  her  as  though  she  were  some  ghastly  avenging 
spirit.  Then,  bending  over  him,  she  6natches  the  dagger  from  the 
grasp  of  the  dying  man,  saying  to  him,  with  a voice  into  which  Isabel 
Bretherton  threw  a wealth  of  pitiful  tenderness,  “ There  is  but  one 
way  left,  beloved.  Y our  wife  that  should  have  been,  that  is,  saves 
herself  and  you  so!” 

And  in  the  dead  silence  that  followed,  her  last  murmur  rose  upon 
the  air  as  the  armed  men,  carrying  torches,  crowded  round  her. 
44  See,  Macias,  the  torches — how  they  shine!  Bring  more — bring 
more — and  light— our  marriage  festival  !** 

“Eustace!  Eustace!  there,  now  they  have  let  her  go!  Poor  child, 
poor  child!  how  is  she  to  stand  this  night  after  night?  Eustace,  do 
you  hear?  Let  us  go  in  to  her  now — quick,  before  she  is  quite  sur- 
rounded. 1 don’t  want  to  stay,  but  I must  just  see  her,  and  so  must 
Paul.  Ah,  Mr.  Wallace  is  gone  already,  but  he  described  to  me  how 
to  find  her.  This  way!” 

And  Madame  de  Cliateauvieux,  brushing  the  tears  from  her  eyes 
with  one  hand,  took  Kendal’s  arm  with  the  other,  and  hurried  him 
along  the  narrow  passages  leading  to  the  door  on  to  the  stage,  M. 
de  Cliateauvieux  following  them,  his  keen  French  face  glistening 
with  a quiet  but  intense  satisfaction. 

* As  for  Kendal,  every  sense  in  him  was  covetously  striving  to  hold 
and  fix  the  experiences  of  the  last  half  hour.  The  white  muffled 
figure  standing  in  the  turret  door,  the  faint  lamp-light  streaming  on 
the  bent  head  and  upraised  arm — those  tones  of  self  forgetful  pas- 
sion, drawn  straight,  as  it  were,  from  the  pure  heart  of  love — the 
splendid  energy  of  that  last  defiance  of  fate  and  circumstance — the 
low  vibrations  of  her  dying  words— the  power  of  the  actress  and  the 
personality  of  the  woman— all  these  different  impressions  were  hold- 
ing wild  war  within  him  as  he  hastened  on,  with  Maris  clinging  to 
his  arm.  .And  beyond  the  little  stage-door  the  air  seemed  to  be  even 
more  heavily  charged  with  excitement  than  that  of  the  theater. 
For,  as  Kendal  emerged  with  his  sister,  his  attention  was  perforce 
attracted  by  the  little  crowd  of  persons  already  assembled  round  the 
figure  of  Isabel  Bretherton,  and,  as  his  eye  traveled  over  them,  he 


MISS  BKETHERTOH. 


85 


realized  with  a fresli  start  the  full  compass  of  the  change  ^h  ^id 
taken  place.  To  all  the  more  eminent  persons  in  that  group, .Miss 
Bretherton  had  been  six  months  before  an  ignorant  and  provincial 
beauty  good  enough  to  create  a social  craze,  and  nothing  moie. 
Their  presence  round  her  at  this  moment,  tlieii  homage,  the  emotion 
visible  everywhere,  proved  that  all  was  different,  that  she  had  passed 
the  barrier  which  once  existed  betweeen  her  and  the  world  which 
knows  and  thinks,  and  had  been  drawn  within  that  circle  of  individ- 
ualities which,  however  undefined,  is  still  the  vital  circle  of  any  time 
or  society,  for  it  is  the  circle  which  represents,  more  or  less  builiant- 
]y  and  efficiently,  the  intellectual  life  of  a generation. 

Only  one  thing  was  unchanged— the  sweetness  and  spontaneity 
of  that  rich  womanly  nature.  3he  gave  a little  cry  as  she  saw  Ma- 
dame de  Chateauvieux  enter.  She  came  running  toward,  and  tlirt 
her  arms  round  the  elder  woman  and  kissed  her;  it  was  almost  the 
o-reeting  of  a daughter  to  a mother.  And  then,  still  holding  Ma- 
dame de  Chateauvieux  with  one  hand,  she  held  out  the  other  to  Paul, 
asking  him  how  much  fault  he  had  to  find,  and  when  she  was  to 
take  her  scolding;  and  every  gesture  had  a ^ow  of  youth  and  joy 
in  it,  of  which  the  contagion  was  irresistible.  She  had  thiown  oft 
the  white  head-dress  she  had  worn  during  tne  last  act,  and  her ' _ 

cateiy-tinted  head  and  neck  rose  from  the  splendid  weddm^-g 
of  gold-embroidered  satin— a vision  of  ttower-like  and  aerial  beauty. 

fast  as  the  talk  flowed  about  her,  Kendal  noticed  that  every  one 
seemed  to  be,  first  of  all,  conscious  of  her  neighborhood,  of  her  dress 
rustling  past,  of  her  voice  in  all  its  different  shades  of  gayety  01 
quick  emotion.  . 

•«  Oh  Mr  Kendal,”  she  said,  turning  to  him  again  after  their  first 
greeting — was  it  the  magnetism  of  his  gaze  which  had  recalled  hers 

“ if  you  only  knew  what  your  sister  has  been  to  me!  How  much 

1 owe  to  her  and  to  you!  It  was  kind  of  you  to  come  to-night.  I 
should  have  been  so  "disappointed  if  you  hadn  t! 

Then  she  came  closer  to  him,  and  said  archly,  almost  in  his  ear, 

,c  Have  you  forgiven  me?” 

Forgiven  you?  For  what?” 

“ For  laying  hands  on  Elvira,  after  all.  You  must  have  thought 
me  a rash  and  headstrong  person  wThen  you  heard  of  it.  On  1 
worked  so  hard  at  her,  and  all  with  the  dread  of  you  in  my  mind. 
This  perfect  friendly  openness,  this  bright  camaraderie  ot  hers,* 

were  so  hard  to  meet!  ..  , , ..  j 

41  You  have  played  Elvira,”  he  said,  * as  1 never  thought  it  would 
be  played  by  anybody;  and  1 was  blind  from  first  tojast.  1 hoped 

you  had  forgotten  that  piece  of  pedantry  on  my  part  ? 

“ One  does  not  forget  the  turning-points  of  one  s life,  siie  an- 
swered with  a sudden  gravity. 

Kendal  had  been  keeping  an  iron  grip  upon  himself  during  the 
past,  hours,  but,  as  she  said  this,  standing  close  beside  him,  it  seemed 
to  him  impossible  that  his  self-restraint  should  hold  much  longer. 
Those  wonderful  eyes  of  hers  were  full  upon  him;  there  was  emo- 
tion in  them— evidently  the  Nuneham  scene  vras  in  her  mind,  as  it 
was  in  his— and  a great  friendliness,  even  gratitude,  seemed  to  loot 
out  through  them.  But  it  was  as  though  his  doom  were  written  in 


86 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


the  very  candor  and  openness  of  her  gaze,  and  he  rushed  desperately 
Into  speech  again,  hardly  knowing  what  he  was  saying. 

“ It  gives  me  half  pain,  half  pleasure,  that  you  should  speak  of  it 
so.  I have  never  ceased  to  hate  myselt  for  that  day.  But  you  have 
traveled  far  indeed  since  the  ' White  Lady  ' — 1 never  knew  any  one 
do  so  much  in  so  short  a time!" 

She  smiled— did  her  ap  quiver?  Evidently  his  praise  was  very- 
pleasant  to  her,  and  there  must  have  been  something  strange  and 
stirring  to  her  feeling  m the  intensity  and  intimacy  of  his  tone.  Her 
bright  look  caught  his  again,  and  he  believed  for  one  wild  moment 
that  the  eyelids  sunk  and  fluttered.  He  lost  all  consciousness  of  the 
crowd;  his  whole  soul  seemed  concentrated  on  that  one  instant* 
Surely  she  must  feel  it,  or  love  is  indeed  impotent! 

But  no — it  was  all  a delusion!  she  moved  away  from  him,  and  the 
estranging  present  rushed  in  again  between  them. 

“ It  has  been  M.  de  Chateau vieux’s  doing,  almost  all  of  it,"  she 
said  eagerly,  with  a change  of  voice,  “ and  your  sister’s.  Will  you 
come  and  see  me  some  time  and  talk  about  some  of  the  Paris  peo- 
ple? Oh,  lam  wanted!  But  first  you  must  be  introduced  to  Ma- 
cias. Wasn't  he  good?  It  was  such  an  excellent  choice  of  Mr. 
Wallace’s.  There  he  is,  and  there  is  his  wife,  that  pretty  little  dark 
woman/’ 

Kendal  followed  her  mechanically,  and  presently  found  himself 
talking*nothings  to  Mr.  Barting,  who,  gorgeous  in  his  Spanish  dress, 
was  receiving  the  congratulations  which  poured  in  upon  him  with 
a pleasant  mixture  ol  good  manners  and  natural  elation.  A little 
furl  her  on  he  stumbled  upon  Forbes  and  the  Stuarts  Mrs.  Stuart  as 
sparkling  and  fresh  as  ever,  a suggestive  contrast  in  her  American 
crispness  and  prettiness  to  the  high  bred  distinction  of  Madame  de 
Chateau vieux,  who  was  standing  near  her. 

“ Well,  my  dear  fellow/'  said  Forbes,  catching  hold  of  him, 
“ how  is  that  critical  demon  of  yours?  is  he  scotched  yet?” 

‘ He  is  almost  at  his  last  gasp,”  said  Kendal,  with  a ghostly  smile, 
and  a reckless  impulse  to  talk  which  seemed  to  him  his  salvation. 
“ He  was  never  as  vicious  a creature  as  you  thought  him,  and  Miss 
Bretherton  has  had  no  difficulty  in  slaying  nim.  But  tlm  hall  was 
a masterpiece,  Forbes!  How  have  your  pictures  got  on  with  all  this?" 

'*  i haven't  touched  a brush  Mnce  1 came  hack  from  Switzerland, 
• except  to  make  sketches  for  this  thing,  Oh.  it's  been  a terrible  busi- 
ness! Mr  Worrall’s  hair  has  turned  gray  over  the  expenses  of  it °s 
however,  she  and  i would  have  out  way,  and  it's  ail  right — the  play 
will  run  tor  twelve  months,  if  she  chooses,  easily.” 

Near  by  were  the  Worralls,  looking  a little  3ulky,  as  Kendal  fan- 
cied, in  the  midst  of  this  great  inrush  ot  the  London  world,  which 
was  sweeping  their  niece  from  them  into  a position  of  superiority 
and  independence  they  were  not  at  ail  prepareo  to  see  her  take  up. 
Nothing,  indeed,  could  be  prettier  than  ner  manner  to  them  when- 
ever she  came  across  them,  but  it  was  evident  that  she  was  no  longer 
an  automaton  to  be  moved  at  their  win  and  pleasure,  but  a woman 
and  an  artist,  mistress  of  lierself  and  of  liei  fate.  Kendall  felt  int:> 
conversation  on  the  subject  with  Mrs.  Stuart,  who  was  as  communi- 
cative and  amusing  as  usual,  and  who  chattered  away  to  him  till  ho 


MISS  BRETHERTON.  8? 

suddenly  saw  Miss  Bretkerton  signaling  to  him  with  her  arm  in  that 
of  kis  sister. 

“Do  you  know,  Mr.  Kendal/’  she  said  as  ke  went  up  to  her, 
you  must  really  take  Madame  de  Chateau vieux  away  out  of  this 
noise  and  crowd?  It  is  all  very  well  for  her  to  preach  to  me.  Take 
her  to  your  rooms  and  get  her  some  food.  How  I wish  I could  en- 
tertain you  here;  but  with  this  crowd  it  is  impossible.” 

“ Isabel,  my  dear  Isabel,”  cried  Madame  de  Chateauvieux,  hold- 
ing her,  “ can’t  you  slip  away  too,  and  leave  Mr.  Wallace  to  do  the 
honors?  There  will  be  nothing  left  of  you  to-morrow.” 

“ Yes,  directly,  directly!  only  1 feel  as  if  sleep  were  a thing  that 
did  not  exist  for  me.  But  you  must  certainly  go.  Take  her,  Mr. 
Kendal;  doesn’t  she  look  a wreck?  I will  tell  M.  de  CMteauvieux 
and  send  him  after  you.” 

She  took  Marie's  shawl  from  Kendal’s  arm  and  put  it  tenderly 
round  her;  then  she  smiled  down  into  her  eyes,  said  a low  “ good- 
night, best  and  kindest  of  friends!”  and  the  brother  and  sister  hur- 
ried away,  Kendal  dropping  the  hand  which  had  been  cordially 
stretched  out  to  himself. 

“ Do  you  mind,  Eustace?”  said  Madame  de  Chateauvieux,  as  they 
walked  across  the  stage.  “ I ought  to  go,  and  the  party  ought  to 
break  up.  But  it  is  a shame  to  carry  you  off  from  so  many  friends.” 
“ Mind?  Why,  1 have  ordered  supper  for  you  in  my  rooms,  and 
it  is  just  midnight.  1 hope  these  people  will  have  the  sense  to  go 
soon.  Now  then,  for  a cab/* 

They  alighted  at  the  gate  of  the  Temple,  and,  as  they  walked 
across  the  quadrangle  under  a sky  still  heavy  with  storm-clouds, 
Madame  de  CMteauvieux  said  to  her  brother  with  a sigh:  “ Well, 
it  has  been  a great  event.  I never  remember  anything  more  excit- 
ing, or  more  successful.  But  there  is  one  thing,  1 think,  that  would 
make  me  happier  than  a hundred  Elviras,  and  that  is  to  see  Isabel 
Bretkerton  the  wife  of  a man  she  loved!”  Then  a smile  broke  over 
her  face  as  she  looked  at  her  brother. 

“ Do  you  know,  Eustace,  I quite  made  up  my  mind  from  those 
first  letters  of  yours  in  May,  in  spite  of  your  denials,  that  you  were 
very  deeply  taken  with  her?  I remember  quite  seriously  discussing 
the  pros  and  cons  of  it  with  myself.” 

The  words  were  said  so  lightly,  they  betrayed  so  clearly  the  speak- 
er’s conviction  that  she  had  made  a foolish  mistake,  that  they  stung 
Kendal  to  the  quick.  How  could  Marie  have  known?  Had  not  his 
letters  for  the  last  three  months  been  misleading  enough  to  deceive 
the  sharpest  eyes?  And  yet  he  felt  unreasonably  that  she  ought  to 
have  known — there  was  a blind  clamor  in  him  against  the  bluntness 
of  her  sisterly  perception. 

His  silence  was  so  prolonged  that  Madame  de  Chateauvieux  was 
startled  by  it.  She  slipped  her  hand  into  his  arm.  “Eustace!” 
Still  no  answer.  “ Have  1 said  anything  to  annoy  you — Eustace? 
Won’t  you  let  your  old^sister  have  her  dreams?” 

But  still  it  seemed  impossible  for  him  to  speak.  He  could  only 
lay  his  hand  over  hers  with  a brother^  clasp.  By  this  time  they 
were  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  he  led  the  way  up,  Madame  de 
CMteauvieux  following  in  a tumult  of  anxious  conjecture*.  When 
Shey  reached  his  rooms  he  put  her  carefully  into  a chair  by  the  fire, 


88 


MISS  BRETHERTON. 


made  her  take  some  sandwiches,  and  set  the  kettle  to  boil  in  his 
handy  bachelor  way,  that  he  might  make  her  some  tea,  and  all  the 
time  lie  talked  about  various  nothings,  till  at  last  Marie,  unable  to 
put  up  with  it  any  longer,  caught  his  hand  as  he  was  bending  over 
the  tire. 

“ Eustace,^’  she  exclaimed,  “ be  kind  to  me,  and  don’t  perplex  me 
like  this.  Oh,  my  poor  old  boy,  are  you  in  love  with  Isabel  Brother  - 
ton?” 

He  drew  himself  to  his  lull  height  on  the  rug,  and  gazed  steadily 
into  the  fi re,  the  lines  of  his  mobile  face  settling  into  repose. 

“Yes,”  he  said,  as  though  to  himself;  “ 1 love  her.  1 believe  I 
have  loved  her  from  the  first  moment.” 

Madame  de  Cli&teauvieux  was  tremblingly  silent,  her  thoughts 
traveling  back  over  the  past  with  lightning  rapidity.  Could  she  re- 
member one  word,  one  look  of  Isabel  Bretherton’s,  of  which  her 
memory  might  serve  to  throw  the  smallest  ray  of  light  on  this  dark- 
ness in  which  Eustace  seemed  to  be  standing?  No,  not  one.  Grati- 
tude, friendship,  esteem — all  these  had  been  there  abundantty,  but 
nothing  else,  not  one  of  those  many  signs  by  which  one  woman  be- 
trays her  love  to  another ! She  rose  and  put  her  arm  round  her 
brother’s  neck.  They  had  been  so  much  to  one  another  for  nearly 
forty  years;  he  had  never  wanted  anything  as  a child  or  youth  that 
she  had  not  tried  to  get  for  him.  "How  strange,  how  intolerable, 
that  this  toy,  this  boon,  was  beyond  her  getting! 

Her  mute  sympathy  and  her  deep  distress  touched  him,  while,  at 
the  same  time,  they  seemed  to  quench  the  last  spark  of  hope  in  him. 
Had  he  counted  upon  hearing  something  from  her  whenever  he 
should  break  silence  wrhich  would  lighten  the  veil  over  the  future? 
It  must  have  been  so,  otherwise  why  this  sense  of  fresh  disaster? 

“ Dear  Marie,”  he  said  to  her,  kissing  her  brow  as  she  stood  be- 
side him,  “ you  must  be  as  good  to  me  as  you  can.  1 shall  proba- 
bly be  a good  deal  out  of  London  tor  the  present,  and  my  books  are 
a wonderful  help.  After  all,  life  is  not  all  summed  up  in  one  desire, 
however  strong.  Other  things  are  real  to  me — 1 am  thankful  to  say. 
] shall  live  it  down.”  ” 

“But  why  despair  so  soon?”  she  cried,  rebelling  against  this 
heavy  acquiescence  of  his  and  her  own  sense  of  hopelessness.  “ You 
are  a man  any  woman  might  love.  Why  should  she  not  pass  from 
the  mere  friendly  intellectual  relation  to  another?  Don’t  go  away 
from  London.  Stay  and  see  as  much  of  her  as  you  can.” 

Kendal  shook  his  head.  “ 1 used  to  dream,”  he  said  huskily, 
“ of  a time  wdien  failure  should  have  come,  when  she  would  want 
some  one  to  step  in  and  shield  her.  Sometimes  1 thought  of  her 
protected  in  my  arms  against  the  world.  But  now!” 

She  felt  the  truth  of  his  unspoken  argument— of  all  that  his  tone 
implied.  In  the  minds  of  both  the  same  image  gathered  shape  and 
distinctness.  Isabel  Bretherton  in  the  halo  of  her  great  success,  in 
all  the  intensity  of  her  new  life,  seemed  to  her  and  to  him  to  stand 
afar  oft,  divided  by  an  impassable  gulf  from  this  simple,  human 
craving,  which  was  crying  to  her,  unheard  and  hopeless,  across  the 
darkness. 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


89 


CHAPTER  Ylll. 

A month  after  the  first  performance  of  “ Elvira  ” Kendal  re- 
turned to  town  on  a frosty  December  afternoon  from  the  Surrey 
lodgings  on  which  he  had  now  established  a permanent  hold.  He 
mounted  to  his  room,  found  his  letters  lying  ready  for  him,  and  on 
the  top  of  them  a telegram,  which,  as  his  man-servant  informed  him, 
had  arrived  about  an  hour  before.  He  took  it  up  carelessly,  opened 
it,  and  bent  over  it  with  a start  of  anxiety.  It  was  from  his  brother- 
in-law.  “ Marie-  is  very  ill.  Doctors  much  alarmed.  Can  you  come 
io-nightV ’ He  put  it  down  in  stupefaction.  Marie  ill!  the  doctors 
alarmed!  Good  heavens!  could  he  catch  that  evening  train?  He 
looked  at  his  watch,  decided  that  there  was  time,  and  plunged,  with 
his  servant’s  help,  into  all  the  necessary-preparations.  An  hour  and 
a half  later  he  was  speeding  along  through  the  clear  cold  moonlight 
to  Dover,  realizing  for  the  first  time,  as  he  leaned  back  alone  in  his 
compartment,  thefull  meaning  of  the  news  which  had  hurried  him 
off.  All  his  tender  affection  tor  his  sister,  and  all  his  stifling  sense 
of  something  unlucky  and  untoward  in  his  own  life,  which  had 
been  so  strong  in  him  during  the  past  two  months,  combined  to 
rouse  in  him  the  blackest  fears,  the  most  hopeless  despondency. 
Marie  dead, — what  would  the  world  bold  for  him!  Books,  thought, 
ideas — were  they  enough?  Could  a man  live  by  them  if  all  else 
were  gone?  For  the  first  time  Kendal  felt  a doubt  which  seemed  to 
shake"his  nature  to  its  depths. 

During  the  journey  his  thoughts  dwelt  in  a dull  sore  way  upon 
the  past.  He  saw  Marie  in  her"  childhood,  in  her  youth,  in  her  rich 
maturity.  He  remembered  her  in  the  school -room  spending  all  her 
spare  time  over  contrivances  of  one  kind  or  another  for  his  amuse- 
ment. He  had  a vision  of  her  going  out  with  their  mother  on  the 
night  of  her  first  ball,  and  pitying  him  for  being  left  behind.  Ele 
saw  her  tender  face  bending  over  the  death-bed  of  their  father,  and 
through  a hundred  incidents  and  memories— all  beautiful,  all  inter- 
twined with  that  lovely  self-forgetfulness  which  was  characteristic 
of  her,  his  mind  traveled  down  to  an  evening  scarcely  a month  be- 
fore, when  her  altection  had  once  more  stood,  a frail  warm  barrier, 
between  him  and  the  full  bitterness  of  a great  renunciation.  Oh 
Marie!  Marie! 

It  was  still  dark  when  he  reached  Paris,  and  the  gray  winter  light 
was  only  just  dawning  when  he  stopped  at  the  door  of  his  brother- 
in-law’s  house  in  one  of  the  new  streets  near  the  Champs  Elysees. 
M.  de  Chateauvieux  was  standing  on  the  stairs,  his  smoothly-shaven, 
ekar-cut  face  drawn  and  haggard,  and  a stoop  in  his  broad  shoul- 
ders which  Kendal  had  never  noticed  before.  Kendal  sprung  up  the 
steps  and  wrung  his  hands.  M.  de  Chateauvieux  shook  his  head  almost 
with  a groan,  in  answer  to  the  brother’s  inquiry  of  eye  and  lip,  and 
led  the  way  upstairs  into  the  forsaken  salon , which  looked  as  empty 
and  comfortless  as  though  its  mistress  had  been  gone  from  it  years 
instead  of  days.  Arrived  there,  the  two  men  standing  opposite  to 


90 


MISS  BKETHERTON. 


each  other  in  the  streak  ot  dull  light  made  by  the  hasty  withdrawal 
of  a curtain,  Paul  said,  speaking  in  a whisper,  with  dry  lips: 

“ There  is  no  hope— -the  pain  is  gone,  you  would  think  she  was 
better,  but  the  doctors  say  she  will  just  lie  there  as  she  is  lying  now 
till — till— the  end.” 

Kendal  staggered  over  to  a chair  and  tried  to  realize  what  he  had 
heard,  but  it  was  impossible,  although  his  journey  had  seemed  to 
him  one  long  preparation  tor  the  worst.  “ What  is  it— how  did  it 
happen?”  he  asked. 

“ Internal  chill.  She  was  only  taken  ill  the  day  before  yesterday.  ; 
and  the  pain  was  frightful  till  yesterday  afternoon;  then  it  subsided, 
and  1 thought  she  was  better— she  herself  was  so  cheerful  and  so 
thankful  for  the  relief— but  when  the  two  doctors  came  in  again,  it 
was  to  tell  me  that  the  disappearance  of  the  pain  meant  only  the 
worst — meant  that  nothing  more  can  be  done— she  may  go  at  any 
moment.” 

There  was  a silence.  M.  de  Chftteauvieux  walked  up  and  down 
with  the  noiseless  step  which  even  a few  hours  of  sickness  develop 
in  the  watcher,  till  he  came  and  stood  before  his  brother-in-law,  say- 
ing in  the  same  painful  whisper,  “ You  must  have  some  food,  then 
1 will  tell  her  you  are  here.” 

“ JSTo,  no;  1 want  no  food, — any  time  will  do  for  that.  Does  she 
expect  me?” 

” Yes;  you  won't  wait?  Then  come.”  He  led  the  way  across  a 
little  anteroom,  lifted  a curtain,  and  knocked.  The  nurse  came, 
there  was  a little  parley,  and  Paul  went  in,  while  Eustace  waited 
outside,  conscious  of  the  most  strangely  trivial  things,  ot  the  passers- 
by  in  the  street,  of  a wrangle  between  two  gamins  on  the  pavement 
opposite,  ot  the  misplacement  of  certain  volumes  in  the  book-case  be- 
side him,  till  the  door  opened  again,  and  M.  de  Chateauvieux  drew 
him  in. 

He  stepped  over  the  threshold,  his  whole  being  wrought  up  to  he 
knew  not  what  solemn  pageant  of  death  and  parting,  and  the  reality 
within  startled  him.  The  room  was  flooded  with  morning  light,  a 
frosty  December  sun  was  struggling  through  the  fog,  the  curtains 
had  just  been  drawn  back,  and  the  wintery  radiance  rested  on  the. 
polished  brass  of  the  bed,  on  the  bright  surfaces  of  wood  and  glass 
with  which  the  room  was  full,  on  the  little  tray  of  tea-things  which 
the  nurse  held,  and  on  his  sister’s  face  of  greeting  as  she  lay  back 
smiling  among  her  pillows.  There  was  such  a cheerful  home  peace 
and  brightness  in  the  whole  scene — in  the  crackling  wood  fire,  in 
the  sparkle  of  the  tea-things  and  the  fragrance  of  the  tea,  and  in  the 
fresh  white  surroundings  of  the  invalid;  it  seemed  to  him  incredible 
that  under  all  this  familiar  household  detail  there  should  be  lying  in  ; 
wait  that  last  awful  experience  ot  death. 

Marie  kissed  him  with  grateful  affectionate  words  spoken  almost 
in  her  usual  voice,  and  then,  as  he  sat  beside  her  holding  her  hands, 
she  noticed  that  he  looked  pale  and  haggard. 

“ Has  he  had  some  breakfast,  Paul?  Oh,  poor  Eustace,  after  that 
long  journey!  Nurse,  Jet  him  have  my  cup,  there  is  some  tea  left; 
let  me  see  you  drink  it,  dear;  it’s  so  pleasant  just  to  look  after  you 
once  more.” 

lie  drank  it  mechanically,  she  watching  him  with  her  loving  eyes, 


MISS  BKETHEKTOH. 


91 


while  she  took  one  hand  from  him  and  slipped  it  into  that  of  her 
husband  as  he  sat  beside  her  on  the  bed.  Her  touch  seemed  to  have 
meaning  in  it,  tor  Paul  rose  presently  and  went  to  the  tar  end  ot  the 
large  room;  the  nurse  carried  away  the  tea-things,  and  the  brother 
and  sister  were  practically  alone. 

“Dear  Eustace,”  she  began,  after  a few  pathetic  moments  of 
Silence,  in  which  look  and  gesture  took  the  place  of  speech,  “ 1 have 
so  longed  to  see  you.  It  seemed  to  me  in  that  awful  pain  that  I 
must  die  before  1.  could  gather  my  thoughts  together  once  more,  be- 
fore 1 could  get  iree  enough  from  my  own  wretched  self  to  say  to 
my  two  dear  ones  all  1 wished  to  say.  But  now  it  is  all  gone,  and 
1 am  so  thankful  for  this  moment  of  peace.  1 made  Di.de  Che- 
vannes  tell  me  the  whole  truth.  Paul  and  1 have  always  promised 
one  another  that  there  should  never  be  any  concealment  between  us 
when  either  ot  us  came  to  die,  and  1 think  1 shall  have  a few  hours 
more  with  you.  ” 

She  was  silent  a little;  the  voice  had  all  its  usual  intonations,  but 
It  was  low  and  weak,  and  it  was  necessary  for  her  from  time  to  time 
to  gather  such  strength  as  might  enable  her  to  maintain  the  calm  of 
her  manner.  Eustace,  in  bewildered  misery,  had  hidden  his  face 
upon  her  hands,  which  were  clasped  in  his,  and  every  now  and  then 
she  felt  the  pressure  of  his  lips  upon  her  fingers. 

4t  There  are  many  things  1 want  to  say  to  you,”  she  went  on.  " 1 
will  try  to  remember  them  in  order.  Will  you  stay  with  Paul  a tew 
days — after — ? will  you  always  remember  to  be  good  to  him?  1 
know  you  will.  My  poor  Paul,  oh,  if  I had  but  given  you  a child!” 

The  passion  of  her  low  cry  thrilled  Eustace’s  heart.  He  looked  up 
and  saw  on  her  lace  the  expression  of  the  hidden  yearning  of  a life- 
time. It  struck  him  as  something  awful  and  sacred;  he  could  not 
answer  it  except  by  look  and  touch,  and  presently  she  went  on  after 
another  pause: 

“ His  sister  will  come  to  him  very  likely — his  widowed  sister.  She 
has  a girl  he  is  fond  of.  After  a while  he  will  take  pleasure  in  her. 
Then  1 have  thought  so  much  ot  you  and  of  the  future.  So  often 
last  night  1 thought  1 saw  you  and  her,  and  what  you  ought  to  do 
seemed  to  grow  plain  to  me.  Dear  Eustace,  don’t  let  anything  1 say 
now  ever  be  a burden  to  you— don’t  let  it  fetter  you  ever— but  it  is 
so  strong  in  me  you  must  let  me  say  it  all.  She  is  not  in  love  with 
you,  Eustace— at  least,  1 think  not.  She  has  never  thought  of  you 
in  that  way;  but  there  is  everything  there  which  ought  "to  lead  to 
love.  You  interest  her  deeply;  the  thought  of  you  stands  to  her  as 
the  symbol  of  all  she  wants  to  reach;  and  then  she  knows  what  you 
have  been  to  all  those  who  trusted  you.  She  knows  that  you  are 
good  and  true.  1 want  you  to  try  and  carry  it  further  for  her  sake 
and  yours.”  He  looked  up  and  would  have  spoken,  but  she  put 
her  soft  hand  over  his  moutli.  “ "Wait  one  moment.  Those  about 
her  are  not  people  to  make  her  happy— at  any  time  if  things  went 
wrong — it  she  broke  down- -she  would  be  at  their  mercy.  Then 
her  position— 3rou  know  what  difficulties  it  has — it  makes  my  heart 
ache  sometimes  to  think  of  it.  She  won  my  love  so.  I felt  like  a 
mother  to  her.  1 long  to  have  her  here  now,  but  1 would  not  let 
Paul  send;  and  if  1 could  think  of  her  sate  with  you— in  those  true 


92 


MISS  BRETHERTON, 


bands  of  yours.  Ob,  you  will  try,  darling?’ ’ He  answered  ber 
huskily  and  brokenly,  laying  bis  face  to  bers  on  the  pillow. 

“ I would  do  anything  you  asked.  But  she  is  so  likely  to  love  and 
marry.  Probably  there  is  some  one— already.  How  could  it  not  be 
with  ber  beauty  and  bet  fame?  Anybody  would  be  proud  to  marry 
ber,  and  she  has  such  a quick  eager  nature.” 

“ There  is  no  one!”  said  Marie,  with  deep  conviction  in  the  whis- 
pered words.  “ Her  life  has  been  too  exciting — too  full  of  one  in- 
terest. She  stayed  with  me;  I got  to  know  her  to  tire  bottom.  She 
would  not  have  bidden  it.  Only  say  you  will  make  one  trial  and  I 
should  be  content.” 

A nd  then  ber  innate  respect  for  another’s  individuality,  ber  shrink- 
ing from  what  might  prove  to  be  the  tyranny  of  a dying  wish  inter- 
posed, and  she  checked  herself.  ‘‘No,  don’t  promise;  1 have  no 
right — no  one  has  any  right.  1 can  only  tell  you  my  feeling— my 
deep  sense  that  there  is  hope — that  there  is  nothing  against  you. 
Men— good  men — are  so  often  over-timid  when  courage  would  be 
best.  Be  bold,  Eustace;  respect  your^own  love;  do  not  be  too  proud 
to  show  it — to  offer  it.!” 

Her  voice  died  away  into  silence,  only  Eustace  still  felt  the  caress- 
ing touch  of  the  thin  fingers  clasped  round  his.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  if  the  life  still  left  in  her  were  one  pure  flame  of  love,  undimmed 
by  any  thought  of  self,  undisturbed  by  any  breath  of  pain.  Oh,  this 
victory  of  the  spirit  over  the  flesh,  of  soul  over  body,  which 
humanity  achieves  and  renews  from  day  to  day  and  from  age  to 
age,  in  all  those  nobler  and  finer  personalities  upon  whom  the  moral 
life  of  the  world  depends!  How  it  burns  its  testimony  into  the  heart 
of  the  spectator!  How  it  makes  him  thrill  with  the  apprehension 
which  lies  at  the  root  of  all  religion — the  apprehension  of  an  ideal 
order — the  divine  suspicion 

“ That  we  are  greater  than  we  know !” 

How  it  impresses  itself  upon  us  as  the  only  miracle  which  will  bear 
our  leaning  upon,  and  stand  the  strain  of  human  questioning!  It 
was  borne  in  upon  Eustace,  as  he  sat  bowed  beside  his  dying  sister, 
that  through  this  fragile  body  and  this  failing  breath  the  Eternal 
Mind  was  speaking,  and  that  in  Marie’s  love  the  Eternal  Love  was 
taking  voice.  He  said  so  to  her  brokenly,  and  her  sweet  eyes  smiled 
back  upon  him  a divine  answer  of  peace  and  faith. 

Then  she  called  faintly,  “Paul!”  The  distant  figure  came 
back;  and  she  laid  her  head  upon  her  husband’s  breast,  while 
Eustace  was  gently  drawn  away  by  the  nurse.  Presently,  he  found 
himself  mechanically  taking  food  and  mechanically  listening  to  the 
iow-voiced  talk  of  the  kindly  white-capped  woman  who  was  attend- 
ing to  him.  Every  fact,  every  impression,  was  misery— these  details 
so  unexpected,  so  irrevocable,  so  charged  with  terrible  meaning, 
which  the  nurse  was  pouring  out  upon  him — that  presence  in  the 
neighboring  room  of  which  his  every  nerve  was  conscious— and  in 
front  of  him,  like  a frowning  barrier  shutting  off  the  view  of  the 
future,  the  advancing  horror  of  death!  Yesterday,  at  the  same 
time,  he  had  been  walking  along  the  sandy  Surrey  roads,  delighting 
in  the  last  autumn  harmonies  of  color,  and  conscious  of  the  d ? wn  of 
a period  of  rest  after  a period  of  conflict,  of  the  growth  within  him; 


MISS  BRETHERTOK. 


93 


of  a temper  of  quiet  and  rational  resignation  to  the  conditions  of 
life  and  of  his  own  individual  lot,  over  the  development  of  which 
the  mere  fact  of  his  sister’s  existence  had  exercised  a strong  and 
steadying  influence.  Life,  he  had  persuaded  himself,  was  for  him 
more  than  tolerable,  even  without  love  and  marriage.  The  world  of 
thought  was  warm  and  hospitable  to  him;  he  moved  at  ease  within 
its  friendly  familiar  limits;  and  in  the  world  of  personal  relations, 
one  heart  was  safely  his,  the  sympathy  and  trust  and  tenderness  of 
one  human  soul  would  never  fail  him  at  his  need.  And  now  this 
last  tender  bond  was  to  be  broken  with  a rough,  incredible  sudden- 
ness. The  woman  he  loved  with  passion  would  never  be  his;  for 
not  even  now,  fresh  from  contact  with  his  sister’s  dying  hope,  could 
he  raise  himself  to  any  flattering  vision  of  the  future;  and  the  woman 
he  loved,  with  that  intimate  tenacity  of  affection  wfliich  is  the  poetry 
of  kinship,  was  to  be  taken  from  him  by  this  cruel  wastefulness  of 
premature  death.  Could  any  man  be  more  alone  than  he  would  be? 
And  then  suddenly  a consciousness  fell  upon  him  which  made  him 
ashamed.  In  the  neighboring  room  his  ear  was  caught  now  and 
then  by  an  almost  imperceptible  murmur  of  voices.  What  was  his 
loss,  his  agony,  compared  to  theirs? 

When  he  softly  returned  into  the  room  he  found  Marie  lying  as 
though  asleep  upon  her  husband’s  arm.  It  seemed  to  him  that  since 
he  had  left  her  there  had  been  a change.  The  face  wTas  more 
drawn,  the  look  of  exhaustion  more  defined.  Paul  sat  beside  her, 
his  eyes  riveted  upon  her.  He  scarcely  seemed  to  notice  his  brother- 
in-law’s  entrance;  it  was  as  though  he  were  rapidly  losing  conscious- 
ness of  every  fact  but  one;  and  never  had  Kendal  seen  any  counte- 
nance so  grief -stricken,  so  pinched  with  longing.  But  Marie  heard 
the  familiar  step.  She  made  a faint  movement  with  her  hand  toward 
him,  and  he  resumed  his  old  place,  his  head  bowed  upon  the  bed. 
And  so  thev  sat  through  the  morning,  hardly  movifig,  interchanging 
at  long  intervals  a few  words— those  sad  sacred  words  which  well 
from  the  heart  in  the  supreme  moments  of  existence — wrnrds  which, 
in  the  case  of  such  natures  as  Marie  de  Chateauvieux,  represent  the 
intimate  truths  and  fundamental  ideas  of  the  life  that  has  gone  be- 
fore. There  was  nothing  to  hide,  nothing  to  regret.  A few  kindly 
messages,  a few  womanly  commissions,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
few  words  to  her  husband,  as  simple  as  the  rest,  but  pregnant  with 
the  deepest  thoughts  and  touching  the  vastest  problems  of  humanity 
— this  was  all.  Marie  was  dying  as  she  had  lived— bravely,  tender- 
ly, simply. 

Presently  they  roused  her  to  take  some  nourishment,  ’which  she 
swallowred  with  difficulty.  It  gave  her  a momentary  strength. 
Kendal  heard  himself  called,  and  looked  up.  She  had  opened  the 
hand  l}ing  on  the  bed,  and  he  saw  in  it  a small  miniature  case, 
which  she  moved  toward  him. 

“ Take  it,”  she  said — .oh,  how  faintly!— “ to  her.  It  is  the  only 
memento  1 can  think  of.  She  has  been  ill,  Eustace;  did  I tell  you? 

1 forget.  1 should  have  gone — but  for  this.  It  is  too  much  for  her 
— that  life.  It  will  break  her  down.  You  can  save  her  and  cherish 
her — you  will.  It  seems  as  if  I saw  you — together!” 

Then  her  eyes  dell  and  she  seemed  to  sleep— gently  wandering 
now  and  then,  and  mentioning  in  her  dying  dream  names  and  places 


94 


MISS  BRETHEIiTON. 


which  made  the  reality  before  them  more  and  more  terrible  to  the 
two  hushed  listeners,  so  different  were  the  associations  they  called 
rip.  Was  this  wdiite  nerveless  form,  from  which  mind  and  breath 
were  gently  ebbing  away,  all  that  fate  had  grudgingly  left  to  them, 
for  u few  more  agonized  moments,  of  the  brilliant,  high-bred  woman 
who  had  been  but  yesterday  the  center  of  an  almost  European  net- 
work of  friendships  and  interests!  Love,  loss,  death— oh,  how  un- 
alterable is  this  essential  content  of  life,  embroider  it  and  adorn  it  as 
we  may  l 

Kendal  had  been  startled  by  her  words  about  Isabel  Bretheiton. 
He  had  not  heard  of  any  illness;  it  could  hardly  be  serious,  for  he 
vaguely  remembered  that  in  the  newspapers  he  had  tried  to  read  on 
the  journey  his  eye  had  caught  the  familiar  advertisement  of  the 
Calliope . It  must  have  happened  while  he  was  in  Sumy.  He 
vaguely  speculated  about  it  now  and  then  as  he  sat  watching  through 
the  afternoon.  But  nothing  seemed  to  matter  very  much  to*  him — 
nolliing  but  Marie  and  the  slow  on-coming  of  death. 

At  last  when  the  wintery  light  was  fading,  when  the  lamps  were 
being  lit  outside,  and  the  bustle  of  the  street  seemed  to  penetrate  in 
little  intermittent  waves  of  sound  into  the  deep  quiet  of  the  room, 
Marie  raised  herself  and,  with  a fluttering  sigh,  withdrew  her  hand 
sottly  from  her  brother,  and  laid  her  arm  round  her  husband’s 
neck.  He  stooped  to  her — kissed  the  sweet  lips  and  the  face  on 
which  the  lines  of  middle  age  had  hardly  settled— caught  a wild 
alarm  from  her  utter  silencercalled  the  nurse  and  Kendal,  and  all 
was  over. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  morning  of  Marie’s  funeral  was  suuny  but  bitterly  cold;  it 
was  one  of  those  days  when  autumn  finally  passes  into  winter,  and 
the  last  memory  of  the  summer  ^warmth  vanishes  from  the  air.  It 
had  been  the  saddest,  dreariest  laying  to  rest.  The  widowed  sister, 
of  whom  Marie  had  spoken  in  her  last  hours,  had  been  unable  to 
come,  and  the  two  men  had  gone  through  it  all  alone,  helped  only 
by  the  tearful,  impulsive  sympathy  and  the  practical  energy  of  the 
mai-.i  who  had  been  with  Marie  ever  since  her  marriage,  and  was  as 
yet  hardly  capable  of  realizing  her  mistress’s  death. 

It  was  she  who,  while  they  were  away,  had  done  her  best  to  throw 
a little  air  of  comfort  over  the  forsaken  salon.  She  had  kindled  the 
fire,  watered  the  plants,  and  thrown  open  the  windows  to  the  sun- 
shine, finding  in  her  toil  and  movement  some  little  relief  from  her 
own  heartache  and  oppression.  When  Paul  came  back,  and  with 
numb,  trembling  fingers  had  stripped  himself  of  his  scarf  and  his 
great  coat,  he  stepped  over  the  threshold  into  the  salonf  and  it  seemed 
to  him  as  though  the  sunlight  and  the  open  windows  and  the  crack- 
ling blaze  of  the  fire  dealt  him  a sudden  blow.  He  walked  up  to  the 
windows,  and,  shuddering,  drew  them  down  and  closed  the  blinds, 
Felicie  watching  him  anxiously  from  the  landing  through  the  half 
open  door.  Then  he  had  thrown  himself  into  a chair;  and  Kendal, 
coming  softly  upstairs  after  him,  had  gently  closed  the  door  from 
the  outside,  said  a kind  word  to  Felicie,  and  himself  slipped  noise- 
lessly down  again  and  out  into  the  Champs  Ely^ees.  There  he  had 


MISS  BRETHERTOM  95 

paced  up  and  down  for  an  hour  or  more  under  the  trees,  from  which 
a few  frosty  leaves  weie  still  hanging  in  the  December  air. 

He  himself  had  been  so  stunned  and  bewildered  by  the  loss  which 
had  fallen  upon  him,  that,  when  he  found  himself  alone  and  out  of 
doors  again,  he  was  for  a while  scarcely  able  to  think  consecutively 
about  it.  He  walked  along  conscious  for  some  time  of  nothing  but 
a sort  of  dumb  physical  congeniality  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  clear 
blue  and  white  of  the  sky,  in  the  cheerful  distinctness  and  sharpness 
of  every  outline.  And  tnen,  little  by  little  the  cheated  grief  reas- 
serted itself,  the  numbed  senses  woke  into  painful  life,  and  he  fell 
into  broken  musings  on  the  past,  or  into  a bitter  wonder  over  the 
precarious  tenure  by  which  men  hold  those  good  things  whereon,  so 
long  as  they  are  still  their  own,  they  are  so  quick  to  rear  an  edifice 
^ of  optimist  philosophy.  A week  before,  his  sister’s  affection  had 
been  to.  him  the  one  sufficient  screen  between  his  own  consciousness 
and  the  desolate  threatening  immensities  of  thought  and  of  exist- 
ence. The  screen  had  fallen,  and  the  darkness  seemed  to  be  rushing 
in  upon  him.  And  still,  life  had  to  be  lived,  work  to  be  got  through, 
duties  to  be  faced.  How  is  it  done?  he  kept  vaguely  wondering. 
How  is  it  that  men  live  on  to  old  age  and  see  bond  after  bond 
broken,  and  possession  after  possession  swept  away,  and  still  find  the 
years  tolerable  and  the  sun  pleasant,  still  chei  ish  in  themselves  that 
inexhaustible  faith  in  an  ideal  something  which  supplies  from  cent- 
ury to  century  the  invincible  motive  power  of  the  race? 

Presently—  by  virtue  of  long  critical  and  philosophical  habit— his 
' mind  brought  itself  to  bear  more  and  more  steadily  upon  his  own 
position;  he  stepped  back,  as  it  were,  from  himself  and  became  his 
own  spectator.  The  introspective  temper  was  not  common  with 
him;  his  mind  was  naturally  turned  outward— toward  other  people, 
toward  books,  toward  intellectual  interests.  But  self-study  had  had 
- its  charm  for  him  of  late,  and,  amongst  other  things,  it  was  now  plain 
to  him  that  up  to  the  moment  of  his  first  meeting  with  Isabel 
Bretherton  his  life  had  been  mostly  that  of  an  onlooker — a bystander. 
Society,  old  and  new,  men  and  women  of  the  past  and  of  the  pres- 

* ent,  the  speculative  achievements  of  other  times  and  of  his  own — 
these  had  constituted  a sort  of  vast  drama  before  his  eyes,  which  he 
had  watched  and  studied  with  an  ever-living  curiosity.  But  his 

* interest  in  his  particular  role  had  been  comparatively  weak,  and  in 
analyzing  other  individualities  he  had  run  some  risk  of  losing  his 
own. 

Then  love  came  by,  and  the  half-dormant  personality  within  him 
had  been  seized  upon  and  roused,  little  by  little,  into  a glowing, 
although  a repressed  and  hidden,  energy.  He  had  learned  in  his 
own  person  whal  it  means  to  crave,  to  thirst,  to  want.  And  now% 
grief  had  followed  and  had  pinned  him  more  closely  than  ever  to 
his  special  little  part  in  the  human  spectacle.  The  old  loftiness,  the 
old  placidity  of  mood,  were  gone.  He  had  loved,  and  lost,  and  de- 
spaired. Beside  those  great  experiences  how  trivial  and  evanescent 
seemed  all  the  interests  of  the  life  that  went  before  them!  He  looked 
back  over  his  intercourse  with  Isabel  Bretherton,  and  Ihe  points 
upon  which  it  had  turned  seemed  so  remote  from  him,  so  insignifi- 
cant, that  for  the  moment  he  could  hardly  realize  them.  The  art- 
istic and  aesthetic  questions  which  had  seemed  to  him  so  vital  six 


96 


MISS  BRETIIERTOM. 


months  before  had  faded  almost  out  of  view  in  the  fierce  neighbor- 
hood ot  sorrow  and  passion.  His  first  relation  to  her  had  been  that 
of  one  who  knows  to  one  who  is  ignorant;  but  that  puny  link  had 
droppt  cl,  and  he  was  going  to  meet  her  now,  fresh  from  the  pres- 
ence of  death,  loving  her  as  a man  loves  a woman,  and  claiming 
from  her  nothing  but  pity  for  his  grief,  balm  for  his  wound — the 
answer  of  human  tenderness  to  human  need. 

How  strange  and  sad  that  she  should  be  still  in  ignorance  of  his 
loss  and  hers!  In  the  early  morning  after  Marie’s  death,  when  he 
woke  up  from  a few  heavy  hours  of  sleep  his  mind  had  been  full 
of  hei.  How  was  ihe  news  to  be  broken  to  her?  He  himself  did 
not  feel  that  he  could  leave  his  brother-in-law.  There  was  a strong 
reg  ird  and  sympathy  between  them;  and  his  presence  in  the  house 
ot  mourning  would  undoubtedly  be  useful  to  Paul  for  a while;  be- 
sides, there  were  Marie’s  words — “ Will  you  stay  with  him  a few 
clays — after— ?” — which  were  binding  on  him.  He  must  write, 
then;  but  it  was  only  to  be  hoped  that  no  newspaper  would  bring 
her  the  news  before  his  letter  could  reach. 

However,  as  the  day  wore  on,  Paul  came  noiselessly  out  of  the 
quiet  room  where  the  white  shrouded  form  seemed  still  to  spread  a 
tender  presence  round  it,  and  said  to  Eustace  with  dry,  piteous  lips: 

“ 1 have  remembered  Miss  Bretherton;  you  must  go  to  her  to- 
morrow, after— the  funeral. ” ' 

“ 1 can’t  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  you,”  said  Kendal,  laying  a 
brotherly  hand  on  his  shoulder.  “ Let  me  write  to-day.” 

Paul  shook  his  head.  ” She  has  been  ill.  Any  way  it  will  be  a 
great  shock;  bui  if  you  go  it  will  be  better.” 

Kendal  resisted  a little  more,  but  it  seemed  as  if  Marie’s  motherly 
carefulness  over  the  bright  creature  who  had  charmed  her  had  passed 
into  Paul.  He  was  saying  what  Marie  would  have  said,  taking 
thought  as  she  would  have  taken  it  for  one  she  loved,  and  it  was 
settled  as  he  vrished. 

When  his  long  pacing  in  the  Champs  Elysees  was  over  Kendal 
went  back  to  find  Paul  busy  with  his  wife’s  letters  and  trinkets, 
turning  them  over  with  a look  of  shivering  forlornness,  as  though 
the  thought  of  the  uncompanioned  life-time  to  come  were  already 
dosing  upon  him  like  some  deadly  chill  in  the  air.  Beside  him  lay 
two  miniature  cases  open;  one  of  them  was  the  case  which  Eustace 
had  received  from  his  sister’s  hand  on  the  afternoon  before  her 
death,  and  both  ot  them  contained  identical  portraits  of  Marie  in 
her  first  brilliant  womanhood. 

“ Do  you  remember  them?”  Paul  said  in  his  husky  voice,  point- 
ing them  out  to  him.  “ They  were  done  when  you  were  at  college 
and  she  was  twenty-three.  Your  mother  had  two  taken — one  for 
herself  and  one  for  your  old  Aunt  Marion.  Your  mother  left  me 
hers  when  she  died,  and  your  aunt’s  copy  ot  it  came  back  to  us  last 
year.  Tell  Miss  Bretherton  its  history.  She  will  prize  it.  It  is  the 
best  picture  still.” 

Kendal  made  a sign  of  assent  and  took  the  case.  Paul  rose  and 
stood  beside  him,  mechanically  spreading  out  his  hands xo  the  fire. 

“ To-morrow,  as  soon  as  you  are  gone,  I shall  go  off  to  Italy. 
There  are  some  little  places  in  the  south  near  Naples  that  she  was 
very  fond  of.  1 shall  stay  about  there  tor  a while.  As  soon  as  1 


MISS  BKETHEUTOK*. 


9? 


feel  1 can,  1 shall  come  back  to  the  Senate  and  my  work.  It  is  the 
only  thing  left  me— she  was  so  keen  about  it/’  His  voice  sunk  into 
a whisper,  and  a long  silence  tell  upon  them,  W omen  in  moments 
of  sorrow  have  the  outlet  of  tears  and  caresses;  men’s  great  refuge 
is  silence;  but  the  silence  may  be  charged  with  sympathy  and  the 
comfort  of  a shared  grief.  It  was  so  in  this  case. 

The  afternoon  light  was  fading,  and  Kendal  was  about  to  rise  and 
make  some  necessary  preparations  for  his  journey,  when  Paul  de- 
tained him,  looking  up  at  him  with  sunken  eyes  which  seemed  to 
carry  in  them  all  the  history  of  the  twro  nights  just  past.  “ Will  you 
ever  ask  her  what  Marie  wished?”  The  tone  was  the  even  and  pas- 
sionless tone  of  one  who  for  the  moment  feels  none  of  the  ordinary 
embarrassments  of  intercourse;  Kendal  met  it  with  the  same  di- 
rectness. 

44  Some  day  I shall  ask  her,  or  at  least  1 shall  let  her  know;  but  it 
will  be  no  use.” 

Paul  shook  his  head,  hut  whether  in  protest  or  agreement  Kendal 
could  hardly  tell.  Then  he  went  back  to  his  task  of  sorting  the 
letters,  ana  let  the  matter  drop.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  scarcely 
capable  of  taking  an  interest  in  it  for  its  own  sake,  but  simply  as  a 
wish,  a charge  of  Marie’s. 

Kendal  parted  from  him  in  the  evening  with  an  aching  heart,  and 
was  haunted  for  hours  by  the  memory  of  the  desolate  figure  return- 
ing slowly  into  the  empty  house,  and  by  a sharp  prevision  of  all  the 
lonely  nights  and  the  uncomforted  morrows  which  lay  before  the 
stricken  man. 

. Put,  as  Paris  receded  further  and  further  behind  him,  and  the  sea 
drew  nearer,  and  the  shores  of  the  country  which  held  Isabel  Breth- 
erton,  it  was  but  natural  that  even  the  grip  upon  him  of  this  terrible 
and  startling  calamity  should  relax  a little,  and  that  he  should  real- 
ize, himself  as  a man  seeking  the  adored  woman,  his  veins  still 
beating  with  the  currents  of  youth,  and  the  great  unguessed  future 
still  before  him.  He  had  left  Marie  in  the  grave,  and  his  life  would 
bear  the  scar  of  that  loss  forever.  But  Isabel  Bretherton  was  still 
among  the  living,  the  warm,  the  beautiful,  and  every  mile  brought 
him  nearer  to  the  electric  joy  of  her  presence.  He  took  a sad  strange 
pleasure  in  making  the  contrast  between  the  one  picture  and  the 
other  as  vivid  as  possible.  Death  and  silence  on  the  one  side — oh, 
how  true  and  how  irreparable!  But  on  the  other,  he  forced  on  his 
imagination  till  it  drew  for  him  an  image  of  youth  and  beauty  so 
glowing  that  it  almost  charmed  the  sting  out  of  his  grief.  The  En- 
glish paper  which  he  succeeded  in  getting  at  Calais  contained  the 
announcement : “ M iss  Bretherton  has,  we  are  glad  to  say,  completely 
recovered  from  Ihe  effects  of  the  fainting  fit  which  so  much  alarmed 
the  p.udience  at  the  Calliope  last  week.  She  was  able  to  play  4 El- 
vira ’ as  usual  last  night,  and  was  greeted  by  a large  and  sympa- 
thetic house.”  He  read  it,  and  turned  the  page  hastily,  as  if  what 
the  paragraph  suggested  was  wholly  distastef  nf  to  him.  He  ref  used 
altogether  to  think  of  her  as  weak  or  suffering;  he  shrunk  from  his 
own  past  misgivings,  his  own  prophecies  about  her.  The  world 
wTould  be  a mere  dark  prison-house  it  her  bright  beauty  were  over- 
clouded! She  was  not  made  for  death,  and  she  should  stand  to  hint 

4 1 > '-H 


98 


MISS  BKETHEIITOK, 


as  the  image  of  all  that  escapes  and  resists  and  defies  that  tyrant  of 
our  years,  and  pain,  his  instrument  and  herald. 

He  reached  London  in  the  midst  of  a rainy  fog.  The  endless 
black  streets  stretched  before  him  in  the  dreary  December  morning 
like  so  many  roads  into  the  nether  regions;  the  gas-lamps  scattered 
an  unseasonable  light  through  the  rain  and  fog;  it  was  the  quin- 
tessence of  murky,  cheerless  winter. 

He  reached  his  own  rooms,  and  found  his  man  up  and  waiting 
for  him,  and  a meal  ready.  It  was  but  three  days  since  he  had  been 
last  there,  the  open  telegram  was  still  lying  on  the  table.  One  of 
his  first  acts  wras  to  put  it  hastily  out  of  sight.  Over  his  breakfast 
he  planned  his  embassy  to  Miss  Bretherton.  The  best  time  to  find 
her  alone,  he  imagined,  would  be  about  midday,  and  in  the  interval 
he  wTould  put  his  books  and  papers  to  rights.  They  lay  scattered 
about — books,  proofs,  and  manuscript.  As  his  orderly  hands  went 
to  wont  upon  them,  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  never  been  so  re- 
mote from  all  that  they  represented.  But  his  nature  was  faithful 
and  tenacious,  and  under  the  outward  sense  of  detachment  there  was 
an  inward  promise  of  return.  “ I will  come  back  to  you/'  seemed 
to  be  the  cry  of  his  thought.  “ Tou  shall  be  my  only  friends.  But 
first  1 must  see  her,  and  "all  my  heart  is  hers!” 

The  morning  dragged  away,  and  at  halt-past  eleven  he  went  out, 
carrying  the  little  case  with  him.  As  he  stood  outside  the  Bays- 
water  house,  in  which  she  had  settled  for  the  winter,  he  realized  that 
he  had  never  yet  been  under  her  roof,  never  yet  seen  her  at  home. 
It  was  his  own  fault.  She  had  asked  him  in  her  gracious  wray,  on 
the  first  night  of  “ Elvira,”  to  come  and  see  her.  But,  instead  of 
doing  so,  he  had  buried  himself  in  his  Surrey  lodging,  striving  to 
bring  the  sober  and  austere  influences  of  the  country  to  bear  upon 
the  feverish  indecision  of  his  mood.  Perhaps  his  disappearance  and 
silence  had  wounded  her;  after  all,  he  knew  that  he  had  some  place 
in  her  thoughts. 

The  servant  who  opened  the  door  demurred  to  his  request  to  see 
Miss  Bretherton.  “ The  doctor  says,  sir,  that  at  home  she  must 
keep  quiet;  she  has  not  seen  any  visitors  just  lately.”  But  Kendal 
persisted,  and  his  card  was  taken  in,  while  he  waited  the  result.  The 
servant  hurried  along  the  ground-floor  passage,  knocked  at  the  door 
at  the  further  end,  went  in  for  a moment,  and  came  out  beckoning 
to  him.  He  obeyed  with  a beatipg  heart,  and  she  threw  open  the 
door  for  him. 

Inside  stood  Isabel  Bretherton,  with  eager  surprise  and  pleasure 
in  her  whole  attitude.  She  had  just  risen  from  her  chair,  and  was 
coming  forward;  a soft  white  cashmereshawl  hung  around  her;  her 
dress,  of  some  dark  rich  stuff,  fell  with  the  flowing  stately  lines  pe- 
culiar to  it;  her  face  was  slightly  flushed,  and  the  brilliancy  of  her 
color,  of  her  hair,  of  her  white,  outstretched  hand,  seemed  to  Ken- 
dal to  take  all  the  chill  and  gloom  out  of  the  winter  air.  She  held 
some  proof  sheets  of  a new  play  in  her  hand,  and  the  rest  lay  piled 
beside  her  on  a little  table. 

” How  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Kendal,”  she  said,  advancing  with  her 
quick  impulsive  step  toward  him.  “ 1 thought  you  had  forgotten  us, 
and  1 have  beenj wanting  your  advice  so  badly  1 1 have  just  been  com- 


KISS  BRETHERTOtf.  99 

plaining  of  you  a little  in  a letter  to  Madame  de  Chaleauvieux! 
She—” 

Then  she  suddenly  stopped,  checked  and  startled  by  his  face.  He 
was  always  colorless  and  thin,  but  the  two  nights  he  had  .iust  passed 
through  had  given  him  an  expression  of  haggard  exhaustion.  His 
black  eyes  seemed  to  have  lost  the  keenness  which  was  so  remarka- 
ble in  them,  and  his  prematurely  gray  hair  gave  him  almost  a look 
of  age  in  spite  of  the  lightness  and  pliancy  of  the  figure. 

He  came  forward,  and  took  her  hand  nervously  and  closely  in  his 
own. 

“ I have  come  to  bring  you  sad  news,”  he  said  gently,  and  seek- 
ing anxiously  word  by  wrord  how  he  might  soften  what,  after  all, 
could  not  be  softened.  “ M.  de  Chateauvieux  sent  me  to  you  at 
once,  that  you  should  not  hear  in  any  other  way.  But  it  must  be  a 
shock  to  you— for  you  loved  her!” 

‘"Oh!”  she  cried,  interrupting  him,  speaking  in  short,  gasping 
words,  and  answering  not  so  much  his  words  as  his  look.  “ fthe  is 
ill — she  is  in  danger — something  has  happened?” 

“ 1 was  summoned  on  Wednesday,”  said  Kendal,  helpless  after  all 
in  the  grip  of  the  truth  which  would  not  be  managed  or  controlled. 
“ When  1 got  there  she  had  been  two  days  ill,  and  there  was  no 
hope.” 

He  paused;  her  eyes  of  agonized  questioning  implored  him  to  go 
on.  “1  was  with  her  six  hours— after  1 came  she  had  no  pain — it 
was  quite  peaceful,  and— she  died  in  the  evening.” 

She  had  been  watching  him  open-eyed,  every  vestige  of  color  fad- 
ing from  cheek  and  lip;  when  he  stopped,  she  gave  a little  cry.  He 
let  go  her  hand,  and  she  sunk  into  a chair  near,  so  white  and  breath- 
less that  he  was  alarmed. 

“ Shall  1 get  you  water— shall  I ring?”  he  asked  after  a moment 
or  twTo,  bending  over  her. 

“No,”  she  whispered  with  difficulty;  “ let  me  alone — iust  for  a 
minute.” 

He  left  her  side,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  wait- 
ing anxiously.  Slie  strugglfjd  against  the  physical  oppression  which 
had  seized  upon  her,  and  fought  it  down  bravely.  But  he  noticed 
with  a pang  now  that  the  flush  was  gone,  that  she  looked  fragile 
and  worn,  and,  as  his  thought  went  back  for  a moment  to  the  Sur- 
rey Sunday  and  her  young  rounded  beauty  among  the  spring  green, 
he  could  have  cried  out  in  useless  rebellion  against  the  unyielding 
physical  conditions  which  press  upon  and  imprison  the  flame  of  life. 

At  last  the  faintness  passed  off,  and  she  sat  up,  her  hands  clasped 
round  her  Enees,  and  the  tears  running  fast  over  her  cheeks.  Her 
grief  was  like  herself — frank,  simple,  expressive. 

“ Will  you  tell  me  more  about  it?  Oh,  1 cannot  believe  it!  Why, 
only  last  week  when  I was  ilk  she  talked  of  coming  to  me!  1 have 
just  been  writing  to  her — there  is  my  letter.  1 feel  as  if  I could  not 
bear  it;  she  was  like  a mother  to  me  in  Paris.  Oh,  if  I could  have 
seen  her!” 

“ You  were  one  of  her  chief  thoughts  at  the  last,  ” said  Kendal, 
much  moved.  And  he  went  on  to  telHier  the  story  of  Marie’s  dying 
hours,  describing  that  gentle  withdrawal  from  life  with  a manly  ten- 
derness of  feeling  and  a quick  memory  for  all  that  could  soften  the 


100 


MISS  BUETHERTOK. 


impression  of  it  to  the  listener.  A.nd  then  he  brought  out  the  mini- 
ature and  gave  it  to  her,  and  she  accepted  it  with  a fresh  burst  of 
sorrow,  putting  it  to  her  lips,  studying  it,  and  weeping  over  it,  with 
an  absolute  spontaneity  and  self-abandonment  which  was  lovely  be- 
cause it  was  so  true. 

“ Oh,  poor  M.  de  CMteauvieux!”  she  cried,  after  a long  pause, 
looking  up  to  him.  “ How  will  he  live  without  her?  He  will  feel 
himself  so  forsaken!” 

“Yes,”  said  Kendal  huskily;  “ he  will  be  very  lonely,  but— one 
must  learn  to  bear  it.” 

She  gazed  at  him  with  quick  startled  sympathy,  and  all  her  wom- 
anly nature  seemed  to  rise  into  her  upturned  face  and  yearning  eyes. 
It  was  as  though  her  attention  had  been  specially  recalled  to  him;  as 
though  his  particular  loss  and  sorrow  were  brusquely  brought  home 
to  her.  And  then  she  was  struck  by  the  strangeness  and  unexpect- 
edness of  such  a meeting  between  them.  He  had  been  to  her  a 
judge,  an  authority,  an  embodied  standard.  His  higk-mihdedness 
had  won  her  confidence;  his  affection  for  his  sister  had  touched  and 
charmed  her.  But  she  had  never  been  conscious  of  any  intimacy 
with  him.  Still  less  had  she  ever  dreamed  of  sharing  a common 
grief  with  him,  of  weeping  at  his  side.  And  the  contrast  between 
her  old  relation  with  him  and  this  new  solemn  experience,  rushing 
in  upon  her,  filled  her  with  emotion.  The  memory  of  the  Nuneham 
day  woke  again  in  her— of  the  shock  between  her  nature  and  his,  of 
her  overwhelming  sense  of  the  inlellectual  difference  between  them, 
and  then  of  the  thrill  which  his  verdict  upon  “ Elvira  ” had  stirred 
in  her.  The  relation  which  she  had  regarded  as  a mere  intellectual 
and  friendly  one,  but  which  had  been  far  more  real  and  important 
to  her  than  even  she  herself  had  ever  guessed!,  seemed  to  have  trans- 
formed itself  since  he  had  entered  the  room  into  something  close  and 
personal.  His  last  words  had  called  up  in  her  a sharp  impression  of 
the  man’s  inmost  nature  as  it  was,  beneath  the  polished  scholarly 
surface.  They  had  appealed  to  her  on  the  simplest,  commonest 
human  ground;  she  felt  them  impulsively  as  a call  from  him  to  her, 
and  her  own  heart  overflowed. 

She  rose,  and  went  near  to  him,  bending  toward  him  like  a spirit 
of  healing,  her  whole  soul  in  her  eyes.  “ Oh,  1 am  so  sorry  for 
you!”  she  exclaimed,  and  again  the  quick  tears  dropped.  “ 1 know 
it  is  no  common  loss  to  you.  You  were  so  much  more  to  each  other 
than  brother  and  sister  often  are.  It  is  terrible  for  you.” 

His  whole  man  was  stirred  by  her  pity,  by  the  eager  expansive- 
ness of  her  sympathy. 

“ Say  it  again!”  he  murmured,  as  their  eyes  met;  “ say  it  again. 
It  is  so  sweet— from  you!” 

There  was  a long  pause;  she  stood  as  if  fascinated,  her  hands  fall- 
ing slowly  beside  her.  Her  gaze  wavered  till  the  eyelids  fell,  and 
she  stood  absolutely  motionless,  the  tears  still  on  her  cheek.  The 
strange  intoxicating  force  of  feeling,  set  in  motion  by  sorrow  and 
pity,  and  the  unsuspected  influence  of  his  love,  was  sweeping  them 
out  into  deep  waters.  She  could  hardly  breathe,  hut  as  he  watched 
her  ail  the  manhood  in  him  rose,  and  from  the  midst  of  grief  put 
forward  an  imperious  claim  to  the  beloved  and  beautiful  woman  be- 
fore him.  He  came  forward  a step,  took  the  cold,  unresisting  hands, 


MISS  BRETHERTON.  101 

and,  bending  befoie  her,  pressed  them  to  his  lips,  while  her  bewil- 
dered eyes  looked  down  upon  him. 

“ Your  pity  is  heavenly,”  he  said  brokenly;  “ but  give  me  more, 
give  me  more!  1 wrant  your  love!” 

She  gave  a little  start  and  cry,  and,  drawing  away  her  hands  Horn 
him,  sunk  back  on  her  chair.  Her  thoughts  went  flying  back  to  the 
past — to  the  stretches  ot  Surrey  common,  to  the  Nuneham  woods, 
and  all  she  had  ever  seen  or  imagined  ot  liis  feelings  toward  her. 
She  had  never,  never  suspected  him  of  loving  her.  She  had  sent 
him  her  friendly  messages  from  Venice  in  the  simplest  good  faith; 
she  had  joined  in  his  sister’s  praises  of  him  without  a moment's  self- 
consciousness.  His  approval  of  her  play  in  ” Elvira”  had  given  her 
the  same  frank  pleasure  that  a master’s  good  word  gives  to  a pupil 
—and  all  the  time  he  had  loved  her — loved  her!  How  strange!  how 
incredible! 

Kendal  followed,  bent  over  her,  listened,  but  no  word  came.  She 
was,  indeed,  too  bewildered  and  overwhelmed  to  speak.  The  old 
bitter  fear  and  certainty  began  to  assert  itself  against  the  overmaster- 
ing impulse  which  had  led  him  on. 

” 1 have  startled  you— shocked  you,”  he  criecf.  “ I ought  not  to 
have  spoken— and  at  such  a time.  It  was  your  pity  overcame  me — 
your  sweet  womanly  kindness.  1 have  loved' you,  1 think,  ever  since 
that  first  evening  after  the  ‘ White  Lady.’  At  least,  when  1 look 
back  upon  my  feeling,  1 see  that  it  was  love  from  the  beginning. 
After  that  day  at  Nuneham  I knew  that  it  was  love;  but  I would 
not  acknow  ledge  it;  1 fought  against  it.  It  seemed  to  me  that  you 
would  never  forget  that  I had  been  harsh,  that  1 had  behaved  rather 
like  an  enemy  than  a friend.  But  you  did  forget— you  showed  me 
how  noble  a woman  could  be,  and  every  day  alter  we  parted  in  July 
1 loved  you  more.  I thought  of  you  all  the  summer  when  1 was 
buried  in  the  country — my  days  and  nights  were  full  of  you.  Then 
when  your  great  success  came— it  wTas  base  uf  me — but  all  the  time 
while  1 wras  sending  my  congratulations  to  you  through  my  sister  at 
Venice,  1 was  really  feeling  that  there  was  no  more  hope  for  me,  and 
that  some  cruel  force  w~as  carrying  you  aw7ay  from  me.  Then  came 
‘ Elvira’— and  1 seemed  to  give  you  up  forever.” 

Her  hands  dropped  from  her  face,  and  her  great  hazel  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  him  with  that  intent  look  he  remembered  long  ago  when 
she  had  asked  him  for  the  “ truth  ” about  herself*  and  her  posidon. 
But  there  was  no  pain  in  it  now;  nothing  but  wonder  and. a sweet 
moved  questioning. 

“ Why?”  The  w7ord  was  just  breathed  through  her  parted  lips. 

Kendal  heard  it  with  a start — the  little  sound  loosed  his  speech 
and  made  him  eloquent. 

“ Why?  ^ Because  1 thought  you  must  inevitably  be  absorbed, 
swallowed  up  by  the  great  new7  future  before. you;  because  my  own 
life  looked  so  gray  and  dull  beside  yours.  1 felt  it  impossible  you 
should  stoop  from  your  height  to 'love  me,  to  yield  your  bright  self 
to  me,  to  give  me  heart  for  heart.  So  1 went  away  that  1 might 
not  trouble  you.  And  then  ” — his  voice  sunk  lower  still — “ came 
the  summons  to  Paris,  and  Marie  on  her  death-bed  tried  to  make  me 
hope.  And  just  now7  your  pity  drew  the  heart  out  of  my  lips.  Let 
me  hear  you  forgive  me.” 


102 


MISS  BRETHERTOM. 


Every  word  had  reached  its  mark.  She  had  realized  at  last 
something  of  the  depth,  the  tenacity,  the  rich  illimitable  promise 
of  the  passion  which  she  had  roused.  The  tenderness  of  Marie 
seemed  to  encompass  them,  and  a sacred  pathetic  sense  of  death 
and  loss  drew  them  together.  Her  respect,  her  reverence,  her  in- 
terest had  been  yielded  long  ago;  did  this  troubled  yearning  within 
mean  something  more,  something  infinitely  greater? 

She  raised  herself  suddenly,  and,  as  he  knelt  beside  her,  he  felt 
her  warm  breath  on  his  cheek,  and  a tear  dropped  on  to  his  hands, 
which  her  own  were  blindly  and  timidly  seeking. 

“ Oh!”  she  whispered,  or  rather  sobbed,  “ 1 never  dreamed  of  it. 
1 never  thought  of  anything  like  this.  But — do  not  leave  me  again. 
1 could  not  bear  it.” 

Kendal  bowred  his  head  upon  the  hands  nestling  in  his,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  life  and  time  were  suspended,  as  if  he  and  she 
were  standing  within  the  “ wind-warm  space  ” of  love,  while  death 
and  sorrow  and  pai  ting— three  grave  and  tender  angels  of  benedic- 
tion-kept watch  and  ward  without. 


THE  END. 


ADVERTISEMENTS. 


THE  BEST 

WaiiBi 

EVER  INVENTED. 

No  Lady,  Married  or  Sin- 
gle, Rich  or  Poor,  House- 
keeping or  Boarding,  will 
be  without  it  after  testing 
its  utility. 

Sold  by  all  first-class 
Grocers,  but  beware  of 
worthless  imitations. 


MUNRO’S  PUBLICATIONS. 

The  Seaside  Library 


POCKET  EJOZTIOn^T. 

240  Called  Back.  By  Hugh  Conway 10 

246  A Fatal  Dower.  By  Author  of  “ His  Y^edded  Wife  ” 10 
250  Sunshine  and  Roses;  or,  Diana’s  Discipline.  By 

the  Author  of  “ Dora  Thorne” 10 

262  The  Count  of  Monte-Cristo.  By  Alexander  Dumas. 

Parts  I.  and  II.,  each 20 

270  The  Wandering*  Jew.  By  Eugene  Sue.  Parts  I.  and 

II.,  each 20 

279  Little  Goldie.  By  Mrs.  Sumner  Hayden 20 

284  Doris.  By  “The  Duchess” 10 

286  The  Iron  Hand.  By  F.  Warden 20 

330  May  Blossom ; or,  Between  Two  Lores.  By  Mar- 
garet Lee 20 

345  Madam.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant 20 

359  The  Water- Witch.  By  J.  Fenimore  Cooper 20 

362  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott.  . 20 


For  sale  by  all  newsdealers,  or  will  be  sent  to  any  address,  post- 
age free,  on  receipt  of  12  cents  for  single  numbers,  and  25  cents  for 
double  numbers,  by  the  publisher.  Parties  ordering  by  mail  will 
please  order  by  numbers. 

GEORGE  JMLUNRO,  Publisher, 

P*  O*  Box  3751*  17  to  37  Vandewater  Streete 


MtnsrKO’S  PERIODICAL 


FALL  AND  WINTER  FASHIONS, 

THE  GEEATEST  FASHION  BOOK  OF  THE  YEAR! 


THE  NOVEMBER  NUMBER,  NOW  READY, 

OF 

The  New  York  Monthly  Fashion  Bazar. 

Price  25  Cents  Per  Copy.  Subscription  Price  $2.50  Per  Year. 

IT  CONTAINS 

A Brilliant  Amy  o£  New  Winter  Costumes,  New  Winter  Cloaks 
and.  Jackets,  Evening,  Eeception  and  Dinner  Toilets,  Wool 
Suits  and  Wraps,  and  Bridal  Costumes. 

Wool  suits  are  fashionable  and  popular.  Striped  goods  are  especially  fa- 
vored for  walking  and  traveling  suits  and  cloaks.  For  street  wear  the  chief 
materials  are  bison  cloth,  tweeds,  French  tricots,  tufted  suitings  and  suitings 
of  men’s  cloth,  lady’s  cloth,  cashmere  and  wool  plaids.  Black  gros  grain 
silks  of  the  richest  quality,  trimmed  with  laces,  jet  and  velvet,  will  be  worn 
on  the  most  important  occasions.  All  the  newest  modes  and  important 
changes  in  materials  are  fully  set  forth  in  the  magazine  and  shown  in  the 
illustrations. 

HATS  AND  BONNETS  FOR  FALL  AND  WINTER  WEAR. 

New  Shapes,  New  Colors,  New  Combinations, 
French  Felts,  Moleskins,  Velvets,  Satin, 
Velveteen,  and  Straw. 

Winter  Fashions  for  Children,  Overgarments  for  Boys  and  Girls. 

THE  NOVEMBER  NUMBER  CONTAINS  THE  COMMENCEMENT  OF  AN  ORIGINAL,  EN* 
TIRELY  NEW  STORY,  ENTITLED 

A WEEK  IN  KILL  ARMEY® 

By  “ THE  DUCHESS.5* 

IT  CONTAINS  ALSO  THE  CONTINUATION  OF 


THE  BELLE  OF  SARATOGA.  By  Mrs.  Lucy  Randall  Comfort. 

ALSO  THE  CONTINUATION  OF 


§WOM  TO  SILENCE? 

Or,  Alino  Rodney’s  Secret. 

By  Mrs , Alex . McVeigh  Miller. 


A Story  by  a New  Authovt  *ntitte& 

©ELBEE, 

The  Ward  of  Waringham. 


Six  Extra  Pages  are  devoted  to  new  designs  in  Embroidery  and  Fancy  Work. 


A choice  selection  of  Sketches,  Essays,  Fashion  Items,  Personals,  Home 
Information,  Humorous  Matter,  Poetry,  and  Biography  in  each  number. 

We  employ  no  canvassers  to  solicit  for  the  New  York  Fashion  Bazar.  AH 
persons  representing  themselves  as  such  are  swindlers. 

MUNRO’S  BAZAR  PENNED  PAPER  PATTERN'S. 


We  are  prepared  to  supply  Munro’s  Pinned  Paper  Patterns,  cut  and  pinned 
into  the  shape  of  garments  of  all  fashions  published  in  this  Magazine. 


The  New  York  Monthly  Fashion  Bazar 


Is  for  sale  by  all  newsdealers.  It  will  also  be  sent,  postage  prepaid,  for  25  centa 
per  single  copy.  The  subscription  price  is  $2.50  per  year.  Address, 
GEORGE  MTJNRO,  Publisher, 

P9  G.  Box  375i.  2.7  to  27  Vand^^t^r  Street,  New  York. 


MUNRO’S  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY 


OKDOAEY  EDITION. 

✓ 


GEORGE  MUNRO,  PUBLISHER, 
(P.O.Box  3751.)  17  to  27  Yandewater  Street,  N.  Y. 


The  following  works  contained  in  The  Seaside  Library,  Ordinary  Edition, 
are  for  sale  by  all  newsdealers,  or  will  be  sent  to  any  address,  postal  free,  on 
receipt  of  12  cents  for  single  numbers,  and  25  cents  for  double  numbers,  by  the 
publisher.  Parties  ordering  by  mail  will  please  order  by  numbers. 


MRS.  ALEXANDER’ S WORKS. 

30  Her  Dearest  Foe 20 

36  The  Wooing  O’t 20 

46  The  Heritage  of  Lac gd ale 20 

370  Ralph  Wilton’s  Weird 10 

400  Which  Shall  it  Be? 20 

532  Maid,  Wife,  or  Widow. . 10 

1231  The  Freres 20 

1259  Valerie’s  Fate .-. 10 

1391  Look  Before  You  Leap 20 

1502  The  Australian  Aunt 10 

1595  The  Admiral’s  Ward 20 

1721  The  Executor 20 

1934  Mrs.  Vereker’s  Courier  Maid 10 

WILLIAM  BLACK’S  WORKS. 

13  A Princess  of  Thule 20 

28  A Daughter  of  Heth 10 

47  In  Silk  Attire 10 

48  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a Phaeton 10 

51  Kilineny. . , ..... , 10 

I 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY.-— Ordinary  Edition. 


470  The  Fortunes  of  Glencore 20 

529  Lord  Kilgobbin.., 20 

546  Maurice  Tier  nay. 20 

566  A Day’s  Hide 20 

609  Barrington , , 20 

633  Sir  Jasper  Carew,  Knight 20 

657  The  Martins  of  Cro’  Martin.  Part  I 20 

657  The  Martins  of  Cro’  Martin.  Part  II. 20 

822  Tony  Butler « 20 

872  Luttrell  of  Arran.  Part  I 20 

872  Luttrell  of  Arran.  Part  II 20 

951  Paul  Gosslett’s  Confessions 10 

965  One  of  Them.  First  half 20 

965  One  of  Them.  Second  half 20 

989  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke.  Parti 20 

989  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke.  Part  II 20 

1235  The  Bramleighs  of  Bishop’s  Folly 20 

1309  The  Dodd  Family  Abroad.  First  half 20 

1309  The  Dodd  Family  Abroad.  Second  half 20 

1342  Horace  Templeton 20 

1394  Roland  Cashel.  First  half 20 

1394  Roland  Cashel.  Second  half 20 

1496  The  Daltons;  or,  Three  Roads  in  Life.  First  half 20 

1496  The  Daltons;  or,  Three  Roads  in  Life.  Second  half 20 

GEORGE  MACDONALD’S  WORKS. 

455  Paul  Faber,  Surgeon 20 

491  Sir  Gibbie 20 

595  The  Annals  of  a Quiet  Neighborhood 20 

606  The  Seaboard  Parish 20 

627  Thomas  Wingfold,  Curate 20 

643  The  Vicar’s  Daughter 20 

668  David  Elginbrod 20 

677  St.  George  and  St.  Michael 20 

790  Alec  Forbes  of  Howglen 20 

887  Malcolm * 20 

922  Mary  Marston 20 

938  Guild  Court.  A London  Story 20 

948  The  Marquis  of  Lossie 20 

962  Robert  Falconer - 20 

1375  Castle  Warlock;  A Homely  Romance 20 

13 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY. —Ordinary  Edition. 


1439  Adela  Cathcart 20 

1466  The  Gifts  of  the  Child  Christ,  and  Other  Tales 10 

1488  The  Princess  and  Curdie.  A Girl’s  Story 10 

1498  Weighed  and  Wanting 20 

1884  Donal  Grant 20 

1921  The  Portent 10 

1922  Phantasies:  A Faerie  Romance  for  Men  and  Women 10 

MRS.  OLIPHAHT’S  WORKS. 

136  Katie  Stewart 10 

210  Young  Musgrave 20 

391  The  Primrose  Path 20 

452  An  Odd  Couple 10 

475  Heart  and  Cross * 10 

488  A Beleaguered  City 10 

497  For  Love  and  Life 20 

511  Squire  Arden 20 

542  The  Story  of  Valentine  and  His  Brother 20 

596  Caleb  Field 10 

651  Madonna  Mary 20 

665  The  Fugitives 10 

680  The  Greatest  Heiress  in  England 20 

706  Earthbound 10 

775  The  Queen  (Illustrated) 10 

785  Orphans 10 

802  Phoebe,  Junior.  A Last  Chronicle  of  Carlingford 20 

875  Ho.  3 Grove  Road 10 

881  He  That  Will  Hot  When  He  May 20 

919  May 20 

959  Miss  Marjoribanks.  Part  1 20 

959  Miss  Marjoribanks.  Part  II 20 

1004  Harry  Joscelyn 20 

1017  Carita  20 

1049  In  Trust 20 

1215  Brownlows 20 

1319  Lady  Jane 10 

1396  Whiteladies 20 

1407  A Rose  in  June 10 

1449  A Little  Pilgrim 10 

1547  It  Was  a Lover  and  His  Lass 20 

1647  The  Ladies  Lindores 20 

13 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBBABY. — Ordinary  EditioA . 


1662  Salem  Chapel. 20 

1669  The  Minister’s  Wife.  First  half 20 

1669  The  Minister’s  Wife.  Second  half 20 

1680  The  Wizard’s  Son . 20 

1697  The  Lady’s  Walk 10 

1708  Sir  Tom 20 

1794  A Son  of  the  Soil 20 

1798  Hester:  A Story  of  Contemporary  Life 20 

1804  The  Laird  of  Norlaw 20 

1919  The  Prodigals*  And  Their  Inheritance 10 

1935  Memoirs  and  Resolutions  of  Adam  Graeme  of  Mossgray, 

Including  Some  Chronicles  of  the  Borough  of  Fendie. . . 20 

1937  Madam.... 10 

1945  The  House  on  the  Moor. 20 

“OH IDA’S”  WORKS. 

49  Granville  de  Yigne;  or,  Held  in  Bondage 20 

54  Under  Two  Flags 20 

55  In  a Winter  City 10 

56  Strathmore 20 

59  Chandos . 20 

61  Bebee;  or,  Two  Little  Wooden  Shoes 10 

62  Folle-Farine 20 

71  Ariadne — The  Story  of  a Dream 20 

181  Beatrice  Boville 10 

211  Randolph  Gordon 10 

230  Little  Grand  and  the  Marchioness 10 

241  Tricotrin 20 

249  Cecil  Castlemaine’s  Gage 10 

279  A Leaf  in  the  Storm,  and  Other  Tales 10 

281  Lady  Marabout’s  Troubles 10 

334  Puck 20 

377  Friendship 20 

379  Pascarel 20 

386  Signa. . 20 

389  Idalia 20 

563  A Hero’s  Reward 10 

676  TJmilta 10 

699  Moths......... 20 

791  Pipistrello  .... 7 10 

864  Findelkiud, * 10 

li 


TEE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY.— Ordinary  Edition. 


915  A Village  Commune . .. 20 

1025  The  Little  Earl 10 

1247  In  Maremma 20 

1334  Bimbi ' 10 

1586  Frescoes 10 

1625  Wanda,  Countess  von  Szalras  20 

1755  Afternoon,  and  Other  Sketches 10 

1851  Princess  Napraxine. . * , 20 

CHARLES  READE’S  WORKS. 

4 A Woman-Hater . 20 

19  A Terrible  Temptation . 10 

21  Foul  Play 20 

24  “ It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend  ” 20 

31  Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long 20 

34  A Simpleton 10 

41  White  Lies 20 

78  Griffith  Gaunt 20 

86  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place 20 

112  Very  Hard  Cash 20 

203  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth 20 

237  The  Wandering  Heir ; 10 

246  Peg  Woffington . 10 

270  The  Jilt.... 10 

371  Christie  Johnstone 10 

536  Jack  of  all  Trades. 10 

1204  Clouds  and  Sunshine 10 

1322  The  Knightsbridge  Mystery 10 

1390  Singleheart  and  Doubleface.  A Matter-of-Fact  Romance .. . 10 

1817  Readiana:  Comments  on  Current  Events 10 

1853  Love  and  Money;  or,  A Perilous  Secret 20 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT’S  WORKS. 

89  Ivanhoe 20 

183  Kenilworth. 20 

196  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian 20 

593  The  Talisman 20 

723  Guy  Mannering. 20 

857  Waverley 20 

920  Rob  Roy 20 

1007  Quentin  Durward 20 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY.— Ordinary  Edition . 


1082  Count  Robert  of  Paris 20 

1275  Old  Mortality 20 

1328  The  Antiquary 20 

1399  The  Pirate 20 

1462  The  Betrothed:  A Tale  of  the  Crusaders,  and  The  Chron- 
icles of  the  Canongate 20 

1598  Redgauntlet.  A Tale  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 20 

1701  The  Monastery 20 

1702  The  Abbot  (Sequel  to  “The  Monastery”). . . 20 

1827  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth 20 

1831  St.  Ronan’s  Well 20 

1848  The  Black  Dwarf,  and  A Legend  of  Montrose 20 

1865  Peveril  of  the  Peak 30 

ANTHONY  TROLLOPE’S  WORKS. 

12  The  American  Senator > 20 

399  The  Lady  of  Launay , 10 

530  Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite 20 

531  John  Caldigate. 20 

601  Cousin  Henry 10 

768  The  Duke’s  Children 20 

870  An  Eye  for  an  Eye 10 

910  Dr.  Wortle’s  School 10 

944  Miss  Mackenzie 20 

1047  Ayala’s  Angel 20 

1090  Barchester  Towers 20 

1201  Phineas  Finn.  First  half . 20 

1201  Phineas  Finn.  Second  half 20 

1206  Doctor  Thorne.  First  half * 20 

1206  Doctor  Thorne.  Second  half. . 20 

1217  Lady  Anna * ...  20 

1255  The  Fixed  Period .' 10 

1283  Why  Frau  Frohmann  Raised  Her  Prices,  and  Other  Stories.  10 

1292  Marion  Fay 20 

1306  The  Struggles  of  Brown,  Jones  & Robinson 20 

1318  Orley  Farm.  First  half 20 

1318  Orley  Farm.  Second  half 20 

1348  The  Belton  Estate 20 

1419  Kept  in  the  Dark 10 

1436  The  Kellys  and  The  O’Kellys 20 

1450  The  Two  Heroines  of  Plumplington 10 


2 HE  SEASIDE  LI  Dll  AD  Y. — Ordinary  Edition . 


1455  The  Macdennots  of  Ballycloran 20 

1473  Castle  Richmond 20 

1486  Phineas  Redux.  First  half 20 

1486  Phineas  Redux.  Second  half . 20 

1494  TheYicarof  Bullhampton 20 

1511  Not  If  I Know  It 10 

1551  Is  He  Popenjoy? 20 

1559  The  Small  House  at  Allington.  First  half 20 

1559  The  Small  House  at  Allington.  Second  half 20 

1567  The  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset.  First  half 20 

1567  The  Last  Chronicle  of  Barset.  Second  half 20 

1634  The  Way  We  Live  Now.  First  half 20 

1634  The  Way  We  Live  Now.  Second  half 20 

1656  Mr.  Scarborough’s  Family 20 

1685  Alice  Dugdale 10 

1707  The  Land  Leaguers 20 

1728  Anthony  Trollope’s  Autobiography 20 

1756  Rachel  Ray 20 

1802  Framley  Parsonage 20 

1805  La  Mere  Bauche 10 

1816  An  Old  Man’s  Love 10 

JULES  VERNE’S  WORKS. 

5 The  Black-Indies 10 

16  The  English  at  the  North  Pole 10 

43  Hector  Servadac 10 

57  The  Castaways;  or,  A Voyage  Round  the  World — South 

America 10 

60  The  Castaways;  or,  A Voyage  Round  the  World — Australia  10 
64  The  Castaways;  or,  A Voyage  Round  the  World— New 

Zealand 10 

68  Five  Weeks  in  a Balloon 10 

72  Meridiana,  and  The  Blockade  Runners 10 

75  The  Fur  Country.  Part  I 10 

75  The  Fur  Country.  Part  II 10 

84  20,000  Leagues  Under  the  Seas 10 

87  A Journey  to  the  Centre  of  the  Earth 10 

90  The  Mysterious  Island— Dropped  from  the  Clouds 10 

93  The  Mysterious  Island — The  Abandoned. 10 

97  The  Mysterious  Island — The  Secret  of  the  Island 10 

99  From  the  Earth  to  the  Moon 10 




THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY.— -Ordinary  Edition . 


Ill  A Tour  of  the  World  in  Eighty  Days. 10 

131  Michael  Strogoff 10 

1092  Michael  Strogoff  (large  type,  illustrated  edition) 20 

414  Dick  Sand;  or,  Captain  at  Fifteen.  Part  1 10 

414  Dick  Sand;  or,  Captain  at  Fifteen.  Part  II 10 

466  Great  Voyages  and  Great  Navigators.  Part  I.  10 

466  Great  Voyages  and  Great  Navigators.  Part  II 10 

466  Great  Voyages  and  Great  Navigators.  Part  III 20 

505  The  Field  of  Ice  (Illustrated) 10 

510  The  Pearl  of  Lima 10 

520  Round  the  Moon  (Illustrated) 10 

634  The  500  Millions  of  the  Begum 10 

647  Tribulations  of  a Chinaman 10 

673  Dr.  Ox’s  Experiment 10 

710  Survivors  of  the  Chancellor 10 

818  The  Steam-House;  or,  A Trip  Across  Northern  India. 

Part  I 10 

818  The  Steam-House;  or,  A Trip  Across  Northern  India. 

Part  II 10 

1043  The  Jangada;  or,  Eight  Hundred  Leagues  over  the  Ama- 
zon. Part  I. 10 

1043  The  Jangada;  or,  Eight  Hundred  Leagues  over  the  Ama- 
zon. Part  II 10 

1519  Robinsons’  School. 10 

1677  The  Headstrong  Turk.  First  half 10 

1677  The  Headstrong  Turk.  Second  half 10 

1716  The  Green  Ray 10 


The  above  works  contained  in  The  Seaside  Library,  Ordinary  Edition,  are 
for  sale  by  all  newsdealers,  or  will  be  sent  to  any  address,  postage  free,  on 
receipt  of  12  cents  for  single  numbers,  and  25  cents  for  double  numbers,  by 
the  publisher.  Parties  ordering  by  mail  will  please  order  by  numbers. 

GEORGE  MUNRO,  Publisher, 

P.  O.  Box  3751.  17  to  27  Vandewater  St.,  N.  Y. 


18 


/ 


/ 


■*  fl 


THE  CELEBRATED 


SOHMEE 


GRAND,  SQUARE  AND  UPRIGHT  PIANOS. 


FIRST  PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 


Centennial  Exnt  bi- 
tten, 1876:  Montreal. 
1881  and  1*83. 

The  enviable  po- 1 
sition  Sohmer  St 
Co.  hold  among 
American  Piano 
Manufacturers  is 
solely  due  to  the 
merits  of  their  in* 
etruments. 


ARE 

AND  PREFE 

.SOIIMCR  .V  CO. 


They  are  used 
in  Conservato- 
ries, Schools  and 
Seminaries,  on  ac- 
count of  their  su- 
perior tone  and 
unequaled  dura- 
bility. 

The  SOHMEIt 
Piano  is  a special 
favorite  with  tho 
leading  musicians 
and  critics. 


AT  PRESENT  THE  MOST  POPULAR 

RRED  BY  THE  LEADING  ARTISTS. 

Manufacturers,  No,  349JO 13$  E*  14ib  H|reet,  ILY*. 





Cashmere  Bouquet 

Toilet  Soap  and  Perfume. 
Highest  award  at  London  1887 
Newcastle  1887 and  Ostend  1888. 


